


With Wings Made of Wax

by Setari



Series: Trapped in the Amber [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Princess Diaries Fusion, Awesome Bobby Singer, Awesome Missouri Moseley, Bigotry & Prejudice, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Family Drama, Family Feels, Id Fic, Moral Dilemmas, Multi, Next Generation Winchesters (Supernatural), Not Canon Compliant from Season 9 onwards, Open Relationships, Original Character-centric, Original Side-Plot, POV Original Character, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Social Networking, Stealth Crossover, Tags May Change, Time Travel Fix-It, Women Being Awesome, Yes I am unironically a Sam/Mia shipper, original lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29354109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setari/pseuds/Setari
Summary: Stuck in the past and waiting on the apocalypse, the house of lies Meira Winchester built to explain her presence to Sam and Dean is about to start crumbling under the weight of John Winchester's suspicions. It doesn't help that there's a whole other branch of her family that needs worrying about, with a history that will sound almost as absurd to Sam and Dean as Meira's own.[ON HIATUS]
Relationships: Castiel/Gabriel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Original Female Character(s), Supernatural (TV) Characters/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Trapped in the Amber [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2111172
Comments: 16
Kudos: 27





	1. Here We Are

**Author's Note:**

> So, this part of the series is as yet unfinished, and idk when I'm actually going to finish it. It may, in fact, be never, although I _hope_ it'll be some time soon. I have one, maybe two chapters to go depending on how long the finale I have planned ends up being.
> 
> This is where things start to diverge a bit more from canon, I've added in a whole original side-plot in order to facilitate my ridiculous crack-ship OTP for Sam, because you just kind of have to resort to crossovers if you want Sam to have any sort of meaningful connections that aren't dead, evil, or shared with his brother to the point of not really being _his_ anymore.

**Middle of Nowhere, Missouri – Tuesday 1 st  August 2006 **

Meira is pretty sure that she’s just made everything worse. She chokes back the horror and guilt and fear, though, and forces herself to move. She doesn’t have _time_ to mess about, so she lets her grace heal everything, the broken bones and the bruises and even the cut on her arm and the one on her neck where Megaera sliced her up. She leans over and checks Sam’s pulse.

Steady. Good. She leans around her seat, and checks Dean’s. Not steady, but present. Good _enough_. For now. John next. Too fast, especially for an unconscious guy, but also present. _Thanks, Granddad_. Meira thinks in relief. Then, she takes the Colt from where it’s stowed in Sam’s waistband, and gets out of the car. The Impala looks like a wreck. The roof has a great big dent right in the middle where they hit the tree, all the windows have shattered, both sides are scraped all to hell, and the entire right side of the trunk has caved in.

The truck that hit them is still on the road, but even that far away, Meira can see the figure climbing out of it and heading towards the Impala. She rounds the hood of the Impala, and sees the figure hesitate. A cold smile curls her lips, and she raises the Colt and shoots. With a crackle of energy, the demon dies, the person he was possessing collapsing in a crumpled heap.

She turns back to the Impala, praying that the rest of her family is going to hold on long enough for her to call an ambulance or something, only to freeze at the sight that meets her. John is out of the car, leaning heavily on the door to keep himself upright, but his gun is steady and aimed square at Meira. When she doesn’t react beyond standing very still, John jerks his chin at her. “Put the Colt on the ground.” He orders.

“John.” Meira says carefully.

“On the ground. Now.” John barks out, and his next breath wheezes faintly, like he’s fighting the urge to cough. Meira obeys, putting the Colt down on the torn up grass, and straightening up slowly. “Step back three paces.” John orders. Meira obeys, hands held loosely in the air so that he can see that she’s not reaching for a weapon or doing anything underhanded or sneaky.

“We don’t have time for this.” She says, flicking a glance over the rest of the car. There’s no other movement from inside the Impala, not that Meira expected there to be any, but she’d hoped.

“Shut up.” John snarls. He staggers away from the Impala, dripping blood with every step towards the Colt and Meira _aches_ with helplessness. He stoops to pick up the Colt, and then aims that at her, too, Meira’s stomach turns over and her eyes sting with frustrated tears.

“John, I swear, I’m not your enemy. I can-”

Pain bursts bright and shocking through her thigh in time with the retort of gunfire, and Meira drops, leg giving out before her grace surges up to heal the _gunshot_ wound her _grandfather_ just gave her. “ _Motherfucker_.” Meira chokes out, feeling stupidly betrayed despite telling herself she really, really should have seen this coming. She’d known he would never trust her, but to actually _shoot her_ , even if it wasn’t a fatal shot?

She shoves up to her hands and knees, the wound in her thigh already healed over by the time John’s shoes appear in her field of vision. She’s about to look up, to try again to get him to let her just _help_ , but before she can so much as open her mouth, something hard cracks down on the back of her head. She drops to her elbows, vision greying out for several long seconds, long enough for John to hit her again, and this time, the world goes black.

* * *

**Unknown Location – Wednesday 2 nd  August 2006 **

Meira wakes up feeling groggy and nauseous, and when she tries to flare her grace to wash the feeling away, all she gets for her trouble is a headache. Her breathing picks up, fear curdling in her gut and making her seriously consider throwing up even before she opens her eyes. “You know,” the voice startles her, and she opens her eyes, only to make a wordless sound of dismay as the light drives spikes right through her head, “I hit anybody _else_ that hard on the head, they’d be dead in hours.”

Yeah. Meira’s going to have to be careful about that. Slit throats and broken necks are no problem, but head injuries fuck with her grace, big time. Instead of trying to open her eyes again, she takes stock with her other senses. She’s sitting up, tied to a chair very securely, her arms tied together behind it. There’s the distant sound of traffic, and the buzz of electric lights, and only one other person breathing in the vicinity. It smells dusty, and faintly metallic, so Meira isn’t surprised when, on inching her eyes open, she sees that she’s been tied up in some sort of industrial storage shed. There’s a devil’s trap over her head done in black paint, and a signum dei vivi under her feet in blood.

Meira blinks at it, wondering dizzily if it might actually hold her. It’s not designed to hold archangels, but she’s not… exactly entirely archangel. She’s angel and human as well, and the signum dei vivi, drawn in human blood willingly spilt and with all the names written correctly, will hold lesser angels. “Where’s Dean? Sam?” She asks.

“Do you really think I’d tell you that?” John demands.

Meira peeks out at him. He looks _terrible_. Haggard and worn and still bleeding in places. “Please tell me you took them to a hospital.” She says, giving her grace another, more determined push. Her stomach lurches, but she can feel her grace sluggishly beginning to heal the damage in her brain.

“They’re safe.” John concedes, and Meira tips her head back in short-lived relief. After all, she knows how this story goes, and given that she couldn’t even prevent one stupid car crash, she’s pretty sure she hasn’t miraculously managed to get her dad through it with _less_ injuries than he’d had the last go around. “So.” John says, ominously, interrupting her spiralling thoughts. Meira doesn’t bother to so much as look at him, instead testing the ropes around her wrists. With grace-enhanced strength, she ought to be able to break them, but no, just like that time with the shapeshifter, she finds she can’t just tear through them. “What the _hell_ are you?” John asks, very bluntly. Meira laughs, thick and wet and pained.

“I already told you.” She tells the ceiling.

“You offered a bullshit dodge. I want the truth.” John retorts.

Meira’s getting an awfully strong sense of deja vu. And she doesn’t have any better answers than the ones she gave John already. What the hell can she possibly say? She imagines, for a moment, telling him the truth, and nearly laughs. There’s no possible way he would believe that. But she’s also pretty sure there isn’t a lie out there that would convince him. Not one that would convince him not to try to kill her, anyway. And she really doesn’t want that, especially not right now.

God, her dad is probably dying right now, and there’s nothing she can do about it. A horrible thought occurs to her, making her stomach drop through the floor. There’s nothing she can do about it and the person who’s _supposed_ to be doing something about it is sitting across from her. What if John is too busy interrogating Meira to make the deal? Not that she wants him to end up in Hell, even now, but she wants her dad to die even less.

“I’m someone who can save your sons.” Meira says. It’s a reckless, stupid play, but she’s pretty sure it’s the only one she’s got. She just has to hope that when the time comes, John will be more willing to deal with her than with the demon that killed his wife.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John growls.

“Are you _sure_ they’re safe right now?” Meira presses, and when John’s eyes narrow, she smiles. “Go check on them. Don’t worry, I’ll be waiting right here when you realise you need a miracle.” John’s jaw clenches, but then he pushes to his feet, stiff and careful, and hobbles out of the room. Meira hears a lock clunking into place as the door slams shut, and rolls her head back again to contemplate the ceiling. _Please, Granddad. Please let me save him._

* * *

**Unknown Location – Thursday 3 rd  August 2006**

When John returns, he looks a little better. Someone’s clearly treated his injuries, and Meira would guess that he even managed a little sleep at some point. Which is bully for him, really, because Meira didn’t sleep a wink. Not that she needs to, exactly, not the same way a normal human does, but just because it won’t kill her doesn’t mean that she much _likes_ being exhausted. And worry is exhausting. Spending all night worrying instead of sleeping is _beyond_ exhausting.

“The demon is gone.” John growls at her.

Meira feels a chill go down her spine. “What?”

“I went back to the cabin.” He tells her, and Meira stares at him in horror. “The place looks like a hurricane hit it, and the demon we left trapped there is gone. You want to explain that?”

Incredulous, Meira can only manage to gape at him for several seconds. “A demon managed to find us bare _minutes_ after we got out of there and ran us off the road, and you’re _surprised_ that there might have been others that found _him_?” She demands. “Newsflash, dumbass, devil’s traps only work on demons _inside_ them. Ones on the outside can still have enough juice to, say, tear up whatever the trap is drawn on and free their friends.”

John grits his teeth, but doesn’t argue. He glares at her furiously, breathing hard, then turns and paces up and down the small space. After two laps, he turns to face Meira again. “What did you mean?” He asks, incomprehensibly.

“About what?” Meira asks.

“About needing a miracle. What did you mean?” John presses.

Meira swallows hard, because there goes that last, fleeting hope that somehow, some way, she’d managed to change enough to save her dad, which in turn would save her grandfather. “Dean’s pulse felt weak when I checked it, back at the crash. The demon fucked him up good, and he got a pretty nasty head wound in the crash.”

John gives her a flat look, and Meira stares back, wondering what about that answer has pissed him off this time. “And you could fix it?” He demands.

Meira grimaces, because, yeah, she could, but she’s going to have to kiss him to do it, and for all that she keeps telling herself it’s not exactly a kiss, more like spiritual CPR, it’s still not something she wants to think about, never mind _do_. But she will, if it’ll save his life. Save John’s life, in the end. “Yeah.”

“Then do it.” John growls. “And _maybe_ I’ll start to think you might be trustworthy.”

Meira rolls her eyes. “I can’t do it from _here_ , asshole.” She snaps, bitterly furious at the truth of that statement, because once upon a time, she could have. Could have just snapped her fingers, dramatic and showy like Pabbi, and healed her family. “You’re going to have to take me to Dean.”

“Why? What are you going to do?” John presses.

Meira stomach turns over in disgust. “I’m going to have to kiss him.” She explains, and now that it’s out there, it somehow seems even worse to contemplate. “It’s the only way I can reach his soul.”

She knows, instantly, that she’s said the wrong thing. John’s face closes off, and all the hints of desperation vanish behind a wall of suspicion Meira hadn’t even realised was beginning to crumble. “If you think I’m letting something like _you_ anywhere near my boy’s _soul_ , you’ve got another thing coming.” He says, and turns to go.

“John!” Meira calls in alarm. “For fuck’s sake, John, I’m not going to _steal_ it or some shit!” She strains with everything she has against the ropes holding her, but though they creak, they don’t break, and John doesn’t look back. “Would you really rather deal with someone _else_? Christ, I know you don’t trust me, but demons aren’t _better_! John!”

The door clangs shut, the lock thunks into place, and John’s footsteps fade into the distance. Meira sits there in the dim, dusty shed, her breath coming in short, shocked gasps as the reality of her abject failure crashes down on her. Tears sting at her eyes, but she doesn’t pay it any heed, too busy trying to think through the haze of fear and failure. Biting her lip hard enough to taste blood, Meira throws all of the might of her grace against the bindings, and screams as it recoils, lashing into her soul. She ends up gasping for breath around sobs, slumped in her bindings, but that doesn’t stop her from trying again. If she can just get _out_ then maybe she can still stop her _idiot_ grandfather from selling his god damned soul.

She has to _try_.

* * *

**Unknown Location – Friday 4 th  August 2006 **

“Jesus _Christ_!”

Meira looks up, aware she must look a wreck. She’s not even sure how long it’s been that she’s been trying to force her grace past the bindings, but the fact that it’s Sam standing in the doorway, not John, _isn’t_ a good sign. “Sam!” She says in a rush. “Sam, where’s John?”

“He’s at the hospital, with Dean.” Sam says quickly. Meira closes her eyes, knowing that it’s too late now. If John’s at the hospital, and sending Sam away, then it’s too late. “What the…” He looks around, taking in the multiple devil’s traps, one of them painted in blood. “Meira, what the hell happened? What did Dad do to you?”

Meira can’t help but notice that, despite the concerned question, Sam isn’t actually moving to untie her. He’s skirting the edge of the signum dei vivi, not willing to step over the boundary. “I guess he decided I was too much of a risk.” She says. “I woke up here after the crash. He wanted to know how I got the demons to trust me. When I wouldn’t tell him, he fucked off.” She pauses, and then sighs. “If you’re going to pick up where he left off, can we just get on with it?” She asks bitterly.

“I’m not going to torture you.” Sam says at once.

“Then untie me.” Meira replies. “Let me just- I just want to see that Dean’s okay with my own eyes. Please.”

Sam hesitates for a long moment, and Meira’s heart spends those seconds breaking into steadily smaller and more vicious pieces. Then Sam nods to himself and takes a very deliberate step over the outer limit of the bloody sigil on the floor. Meira just smiles faintly, and doesn’t move as Sam circles her and drops to his knees to untie her hands. “ _Christ_.” Sam says again. Probably at the mess of Meira’s wrists. She’s healed the worst of the damage, but left the superficial wounds. After all, she really doesn’t want Sam to have a reason to leave her here.

The ropes fall away, and Meira carefully gets to her feet. She aches all over, lingering and persistent, but she ignores it. She’s aware of Sam’s eyes on her as she walks towards the edge of the sigil. She’s tempted to pause, but she doesn’t want to give Sam such a large sign of her own uncertainty, so she keeps walking, as steadily as possible, and doesn’t sigh with relief when she steps over the outer boundary without trouble. There’s a prickle of awareness on her skin as she passes it, but nothing more than that. Just footsteps behind her as Sam finally moves to follow.

Once outside, Meira can see that they’re in some sort of abandoned warehouse complex, and there’s a pale blue car too pristine to be part of the scenery not too far away. “Had to get a rental.” Sam explains ruefully, over-taking Meira and going to unlock the doors. “Bobby’s towing the Impala back to his yard for Dean to fix up once he’s back on his feet.”

“And- and he will be?” Meira checks, hating that her voice comes out small and frightened.

Sam pauses with the key in the lock, looking at her over the roof of the car. “Yeah.” He says seriously, offering her a smile that’s small, but entirely sincere. “It was touch and go there for a little while, but yeah, he’s going to be fine.”

Meira closes her eyes, braces one arm on the roof of the car and bows over it until her forehead meets her bloody sleeve. “Oh, thank fuck.” She breathes, even though it’s not only relief making her eyes sting. Then she shoves it all back, sniffs away the tears, and looks up again. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any water with you, do you?” She asks.

Sam’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Sure.” He says quickly, and abandons the front door in favour of the back. Meira climbs into the passenger seat while he’s doing that, and he passes her a canteen through the gap between the seats. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Meira says thickly, and then drinks. It tastes pure in that way Meira’s always associated with blessings, and it almost makes her laugh. But she pretends not to notice as Sam gets into the driver’s seat and takes them both to the hospital.

* * *

**Kansas City, Missouri – Friday 4 th  August 2006 **

Meira knows what they’re going to find at the hospital, but it doesn’t make it any easier, watching the way Sam’s steps falter and his face falls when he nears Dean’s hospital room and finds his brother sitting on the edge of the bed, expression one of shock and badly concealed devastation. “Dean?” Sam asks, voice shaking ever so slightly. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Dean looks up, and his eyes flicker from Sam to Meira and back again. Then he swallows, and his lower lip starts trembling. Oh, god. Meira steps forward on instinct and puts a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort. “Dean?” She asks quietly.

“Dad’s dead, Sam.” Dean forces out, clipped and brisk except for the way his voice wavers.

Sam gasps and hunches slightly like the words were a physical blow. “What?” He rasps out, hoarse and uncomprehending.

“Dad-” Dean chokes out, and then can’t seem to find any more words. He shakes his head and looks away, looks down and tries to pretend his shoulder isn’t shaking under Meira’s hand. She gives in and sits next to him, putting the arm around his shoulders. Dean doesn’t move.

“What _happened_?!” Sam demands.

“I don’t know, Sam. He-” Dean chokes on a sound that might’ve been a laugh, or might’ve been a sob. “He said he was going to get a cup of coffee, and then he didn’t come back. I- I heard yelling, and I thought- I went to see what was going on and- and he was just _lying_ there. There wasn’t anything they could- He was just _gone_.”

Sam sits down on the visitor’s chair slowly, like he’s moving through molasses, still staring at Dean with wide, pleading eyes, like he’s just waiting for the moment someone yells ‘gotcha!’ “He- he can’t be-” He stammers, shaking his head vaguely.

“He _is_.” Dean snaps, head coming up to glare at Sam wetly for half a second before he’s looking away again. He shrugs Meira’s arm off, and she recoils, hunching in on herself at the rejection, even though she knows she shouldn’t take it personally. Dean shoves to his feet and starts pacing, hands shaking as he clenches them into fists and then relaxes again, over and over.

Sam keeps blinking, sending tears slipping down onto his cheeks, and his breathing is ragged, but he’s not sobbing. “What-” He begins, then fades out, as if the words just won’t come. Dean turns to stare at him. Sam looks back, utterly lost. That shakes Meira almost as badly as it would seeing that expression on her dad’s face. Her uncle has always been so steady, not the heart of their family, maybe, but the _bedrock_. To see him like this is wrenching in a way Meira hadn’t expected. “What are we gonna do?”

Dean doesn’t seem to have an answer. Meira gives them a minute, because she doesn’t want to butt into a grief she feels she has little right to share. But when the silence stretches, and the brothers do nothing more than stare at each other in quiet, bewildered devastation, she clears her throat and steps up, because what else can she do? “We’ll go to Bobby’s. We can- we can figure out the rest of it from there.” She suggests.

Sam and Dean turn to stare at her, and then Dean nods. “Yeah. Right. Yeah. That’s- That works.”

They’re both obviously going to be useless, so Meira forces herself to ignore the tiny, quaking child at her core and deal with the practical things. She talks to the doctors about getting Dean released, about what’s going to happen to John’s body, makes arrangements for it to be moved to a funeral home up in Sioux Falls, and gets given what few personal effects he had on him at the time of his death. A wallet, a phone, and a ring of keys.

No Colt. Not that Meira expected it to be there.

But it still makes the feeling of vulnerability shivering under her skin even more acute. She can’t summon her angel blade, and now they’ve lost the Colt, which means they have no good way of killing any demon that might try to come after them. And she knows, intellectually, that this is the way it went before, and Sam and Dean lived through the time they were without the Colt, but she can’t shake the fear. Even with all this proof staring her in the face that she can’t change jack shit when it really matters, she still can’t stop the sliding sense of panic.

She can’t live like that. She can’t live _with_ that, so she grabs up John’s phone and scrolls through his contacts until she finds the one labelled ‘Joseph’ and she hits dial before she can think better of it. After all, the Renaldi have been demon-hunters since before recorded history. If anyone can help her get her hands on something to kill demons, they’d be the ones to ask. The phone rings all the way through to voicemail, and a familiar, steady voice tells her “Tell me what you want and I’ll get back to you,” before the messaging service beeps at her to let her know it’s recording.

“Joe-” No, she’s not his great-grand-niece here. She’s a stranger, she can’t act so familiar and expect Joe to let it slide. “Joseph. I- My name is Meira. John Winchester has just gone and done something really stupid, and now we- me and his sons, I mean- We need a way to kill demons. You’re the only person I could think of who might be able to help with that. Please- _please_ , call me back.”

She hangs up and then just stands there, trying to breathe through the storm of her emotions. The panic, yes, but also the weight of her failure, the grief and fury for and at a man she’d barely known. What sort of an _idiot_ trusted a demon over- Well, that’s just it, isn’t it. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t, and all that. It’s Meira’s own fault that she hadn’t been able to help, hadn’t been able to convince John to let her _try_.

The phone in her hand starts ringing, making her startle before she brings it to her ear in a rush. “Joseph?” She checks.

“And you’re Meira Novak.” Joseph replies.

“John mentioned he’d told you about me.” Meira says, wry even through the sudden flutter of nerves in her gut. What if she couldn’t get _Joe_ to trust her either? That would sting _so_ much worse than having John Winchester looking at her like she’s an abomination.

“It’s a dangerous thing, claiming to be related to a Renaldi.” Joseph points out.

Meira laughs before she can help it. “Most demons want to kill me anyway, I haven’t got much to lose.” She points out dryly. Joe makes a small sound of acknowledgement, but doesn’t speak. Meira takes a breath, and lays everything out. “I want one of your special knives. Or- well, three would be better, but I’m trying not to push my luck here. I don’t- I know I’ve got no right to ask, but…”

“You’re right, you don’t.” Joseph tells her flatly, and Meira winces. “I don’t know how you know about them, but those knives are extremely difficult to make, and we’re fighting a war. We can’t spare one for the Winchesters’ petty crusade.”

Meira licks her lips. “Do you know who Azazel is?” She asks.

There’s dead silence on the other end of the phone.

“We’re-” Meira chokes on the half-lie, but presses on regardless. “We’re not part of your family, I know that, but we’re fighting the same god damned war you are, just from a different direction.”

More silence.

“Joseph?” Meira asks warily.

“Give me your number. I’ll text you an address in two days.” Joseph tells her briskly.

Meira nearly staggers under the force of her relief. “ _Thank you_.” She breathes, and then gives Joseph her number. Joseph promptly hangs up on her, but Meira isn’t offended. She’s too relieved to be offended. Two days. That’s fine. She needs to stick around a little longer anyway, to help Sam and Dean in whatever ways they’ll let her, but she can take a little detour in a couple of days.

She feels lighter as she returns to Sam and Dean and shepherds them out to Sam’s rental. Things still look pretty bleak, no matter what angle you come at the situation from, but Meira’s managed to grab onto a couple of threads of hope, and that’s enough. She tunes the radio to a classic rock station, because that’s her choice of comfort-food for her soul, and starts driving them to Bobby’s.

* * *

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota – Sunday 6 th  August 2006 **

“An’ where are you going?”

Meira freezes, feeling like a teenager getting caught sneaking out. She turns to face Bobby, who’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the jamb and watching her with an expectant expression. “Out?” She offers with a wry grin, playing up the stereotype.

Bobby snorts and pushes away from the doorjamb, crossing the living room to join her by the front door. “Yeah, I figured that much out for myself, thanks.” He grumbles. “You mind being a little bit more specific?”

Meira sighs and looks away. It stings less, coming from someone she doesn’t know as well, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting at all. And she’s not sure what to say, how much of the truth to tell. Renaldi secrets aren’t hers to tell, after all, never mind her persistent issues with how much of her own history she can dare to reveal.

“If you’re going out to chat up some demons, someone oughta know where you are, in case you get yourself into trouble.” Bobby says, startling Meira out of her thoughts. She looks at him in shock, and Bobby snorts at her. “You’re keeping secrets, any fool can see that, but so far as I can tell, you care about those boys, and that’s enough to earn you a little good will in this house.”

Meira smiles, a little wetly, because it’s so good to hear those words that she’s feeling a little choked up. “No, I’m- Not demons.” She says finally. “I, uh… The Colt’s missing.” She points out with a shrug. “I’m going to meet with a hunter who might be able to help me get my hands on something similar.”

“You know of something _else_ that can kill demons?” Bobby asks incredulously.

Meira shrugs, then nods. “It’s… a difficult ritual, with some pretty rare components, but as long as money and time are no obstacle, then making a demon-killing weapon isn’t that hard.”

Bobby’s eyebrows fly up. “If you know people that can make something like that, I’d sure as hell like to meet them.” He says, considering. “There room for one more?”

Meira hesitates, but she can’t think of a reason to say no. And she kind of wants Bobby and Joseph to meet, wants to be there to see it, because her family is broken and scattered and non-existent right now, and having even such disparate pieces of it coming together sounds awesome. “Sure.” She says finally. “You fancy driving? I was planning to hotwire a car.”

Bobby gives her a look for that, but goes and grabs his keys and leave a note for Sam and Dean. The moment he gets the door open, Rumsfeld perks up from where he’s lying on the porch and gives a quiet whuff of greeting. Bobby leans down and scratches him behind the ears as they pass, and then climbs into his truck. “So where’re we going, then?”

“Sioux City.” Meira tells him, and he nods and starts the engine.

“So why don’t you want to tell Sam and Dean about this little trip o’ yours?” Bobby asks once they’ve been driving in silence for a while.

Meira huffs a bitter little laugh. “You want that list in alphabetical or chronological order?” She asks. Bobby shoots her a look that tells her exactly how unimpressed he is with her sass, and she sighs again. “I’m not about to go spilling secrets that aren’t mine, but right now, Sam and Dean wouldn’t just trust my word on this, they’d ask questions I don’t feel comfortable answering, and when I refused to answer, they’d take it as more confirmation they can’t trust me. Then they’d want to come with me, to make sure I’m not doing something nefarious, and… I’m just not up to that, okay? Let me pretend they don’t think I’m evil for a few more days, alright?”

“They don’t think you’re evil.” Bobby protests.

Now it’s Meira’s turn to give him an unimpressed look. “They think I could be.”

Bobby rolls his eyes at her. “You’re keeping secrets, girl.” He reminds her again. “They don’t know what to think because you won’t tell ‘em whatever it is you’re holding back. It’s a pretty far jump from ‘secretive’ to ‘evil’.”

“John seemed to make the leap just fine.” Meira mutters resentfully.

Bobby snorts. “John Winchester was a paranoid bastard. Of course he did. You telling me you think those boys are just like their dad, huh?” He asks sceptically. Meira looks over at him, unable to keep from smiling at the derisive look on his face. It warms her through, after a whole week of dealing with John, of dealing with Sam and Dean and John all together, to know that someone else can see what she sees.

“No.” She agrees finally, looking back out of the windshield. “No, Sam and Dean are better men than their father by a pretty wide margin, in my opinion. But _they_ don’t think that.” She goes on, smile falling away. “They trust their dad’s judgement, and he thought I was more evil than a demon. So, you know, forgive me if I’m not eager to have two of the people I care about look at me like they’re just waiting for me to sprout fangs and horns.”

“Keeping more secrets isn’t going to help with that.” Bobby points out. “You could try telling them whatever it is you’re keeping from them.”

“Maybe.” Meira says, even though she’s pretty sure they can both tell she means ‘hell no’.

* * *

**Sioux City, Iowa – Sunday 6 th  August 2006 **

The address Joseph had texted her before dawn that morning turns out to be a park, small and not very well tended, but there’s a jungle gym in one corner with a couple of kids playing, and an open space where a bunch of teenagers are loitering, and a little tarmac path that sees the occasional jogger or dog-walker. The path has a couple of benches positioned strategically along it, and Joseph is sitting on one of them, wearing a black leather jacket despite the August heat.

Meira can’t help but smile when she spots him. He looks so freaking _young_. God, he can’t be more than fifty right now, fifty-five, maybe. And by most people’s counts, that would probably still be called old, but Meira remembers him eighty-five and worn thin with age. Right now, he looks positively sprightly in comparison. He catches her eye and nods in greeting, getting to his feet as she and Bobby stroll closer. “I wasn’t aware you were planning to bring friends.” Joseph says coolly, one eyebrow arching.

Meira shrugs ruefully. “He insisted.”

“I _asked_.” Bobby corrects grouchily, and then holds a hand out to Joseph. “Bobby Singer.”

Joseph inclines his head as he shakes the offered hand. “Joseph Renaldi.”

Bobby’s eyebrows rise. “I’ve heard that name.” He says.

Joseph smiles faintly. “And I’ve heard yours.” He acknowledges, then pulls a flask out of his coat pocket. “Holy water.” He explains, pouring a drop out onto his hand to demonstrate that it’s not harmful to humans, then holding it very pointedly out to Bobby. He takes it with a roll of his eyes and takes a swig, before passing it to Meira. She does the same, and hands it back. Joseph puts it away again and then gestures to the bench. “Please, sit.”

They sit, and Joseph settles on Meira’s other side, so that she’s tucked in between the two older men. She slouches a little, letting herself relax in their company. “So.” Joseph says after almost a full minute of silence. “You want one of our knives.”

“Yeah.” Meira confirms. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t getting kind of dire.”

Joseph hums thoughtfully for a moment. “No, you wouldn’t.” He agrees finally. “Because, somehow, you know what war we’re fighting, even though you’re not one of ours.”

“War?” Bobby asks sharply.

Joseph doesn’t bother to answer, just looks at Meira, clearly expecting a response from her. She shrugs, because it’s not like she can explain how she found out. Joseph is clearly happy to wait her out, though, so she casts about for something, anything, that isn’t a lie. “I don’t have to be one of your people to want to help.”

“True.” Joseph acknowledges, turning to look out at the park, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped between them. “But you’re not here to help us, you’re here asking for our help.” He points out, and Meira nods because that is true. “This is not a good time to be asking for one of our weapons, you know.” He tells her. “It’s been nearly a century since we were able to create any more, and in all my years, I’ve never seen the demons as active as they have been this year.”

“You’ve noticed it too, huh?” Bobby asked grimly. “Well, then you’ve probably noticed that the Winchesters are smack in the middle of all of it.”

“They are one of the favoured targets, yes.” Joseph muses. “But not the only one. And we need help, too.” He concludes grimly. He straightens and turns to look at Meira again. “You mentioned the name of a Prince of Hell on the phone. Tell me everything you know, and one of our knives is yours.”

“A _what_?!” Bobby exclaims.

“The yellow-eyed demon.” Meira tells him. “His name is Azazel.”

“The scapegoat demon?” Bobby asks.

“You know your biblical lore.” Joseph says approvingly. “Yes.”

“And he’s a _Prince_ of Hell?”

“The last of the Princes.” Joseph states. “And perhaps the most powerful demon to have walked this earth in millennia.”

“Balls.” Bobby swears fiercely, pulling his hat off to run a hand back over his hair.

Silence falls as Meira marshals herself. She’s going to have to give Joseph some solid information, but she doesn’t want to say anything in front of Bobby that would raise his suspicions. She doesn’t want to lose the one tentative ally she’s still certain she has. “When he was trying to track Azazel, John Winchester found a pattern of demonic omens.” She begins carefully. “Every twenty-two, twenty-three years he resurfaces, and goes after six month old babies.”

“Goes after.” Joseph says flatly.

“He doesn’t kill them.” Meira confirms grimly. “He’ll kill the parents if he can, but not the babies. The pattern goes back as far as John could find reliable records, every twenty to twenty-five years like clockwork. I- I suspect he’s been doing it for at least a thousand years.”

“How the hell do you figure that?” Bobby demands, quiet and horrified.

“Because I spoke with Megaera a little.” Meira tells him, and leans forwards, elbows on knees, so that she doesn’t have to look at either of them as she tells them what she realised in that little shack in the woods where Azazel cornered them. “She told me she’d _forgotten_ her original name. That- It takes a hell of a long time to lose such a fundamental cornerstone of your identity, even if you factor Hell into the equation. And Azazel called her his _daughter._ ”

“Demons don’t have familial ties.” Joseph says lowly, but it’s not a denial, it’s just a prompt for more information.

“Which is why I think he- he meant that she was one of the children he’d… I don’t know what he _does_ , exactly-” That’s a lie, but Meira can’t justify knowing the truth. “But I think Megaera was… was once upon a time a very, very long time ago, like Sam. One of the kids that Azazel went looking for on their six month birthday.”

“How many kids does it single out, each time?” Joseph asks sharply.

Meira thinks back, tries to remember what her dad had told her about the showdown Uncle Sam had been dragged off to, tries to remember all his stories that had involved Azazel’s special children. There was Sam and Max. A girl that had been taken early. Twins. Another guy and girl they met at the showdown. “I’m not sure.” Meira admits. “Half a dozen? Probably more.”

“If you’re right, that’s _hundreds_ of kids.” Joseph tells her. “That’s an army.”

Meira huffs a dark laugh. “Hell already has an army.” She points out. “They don’t need to search out kids over and over again to make an army, they just need to let humans get on with corrupting themselves. There’s got to be something about these kids that makes them special, that makes them _targets_ . That makes Azazel want _them specifically_ . He wouldn’t call them _his children_ if they weren’t more important than just canon fodder.”

“But you don’t know what.” Joseph states more than asks.

“Not yet.” Meira lies, leaning back to offer him a cocky grin.

Joseph eyes her for a long moment, then snorts. He reaches under the bench and retrieves a dark backpack. From inside it, he withdraws a plain wooden box about half the size of a shoebox. “This,” he says, holding the box out to Meira, “was made on the nineteenth of May, 1910. The day the earth passed through the blade of the Queen’s Scythe.”

Meira gapes at him, hands frozen in the act of taking the box.

“The what?” Bobby asks.

“Halley’s Comet.” Meira says. “That’s a… rough translation of a very, very old name for it. Holy _shit_ , and you’re giving it to _me_?”

“You’re hunting a Prince of Hell.” Joseph tells her sternly. “You will need one of the strongest weapons we have if you hope to kill it.” Hesitantly, Meira takes the box. Joseph nods and stands, slinging the backpack over one shoulder. “If you find out anything else of note, get in touch.” He instructs.

“I will.” Meira agrees.

Joseph walks away without another word.

Bobby and Meira sit in silence on the park bench for a long while afterwards, just letting everything settle. Then Bobby clears his throat. “Well, let’s have a look, then.” He says gruffly, and Meira sucks in a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, then fumbles the box open. Inside is a simple dagger without a cross-guard, the hilt wrapped in simple dark leather, and the blade carved with an Aquarian star just below the hilt, followed by a line of ancient symbols denoting a blessing. Even though the hilt is all wrong and the blade is the wrong shape, it’s almost the right colour and without a cross-guard Meira can almost fool herself into thinking it’s an angel-blade.

“I don’t recognise those symbols.” Bobby remarks, sounding surprised and a little put out.

Meira grins. “It’s a blessing. ‘Knowledge be my blade, compassion my shield.’”

“Ain’t blessings supposed to invoke god?” Bobby asks, but he doesn’t sound sceptical, just curious.

“That only works if you believe God has the power to smite demons.” Meira tells him.

“O’course he does, he’s _God_.” Bobby retorts.

Meira acknowledges and dismisses that with the same motion of her head. “Sure, but does the weapon work because God wills it, or because you _believe_ that God wills it?” She asks. Bobby squints at her, and Meira grins again. “You can bless a weapon in the name of God, or Allah, or Yahweh, or Buddah, or the Universe, or the elements, or the truth, or your own soul. As long as you believe, truly and completely, that it will work, why shouldn’t it?”

Bobby doesn’t look impressed. “And you’re saying that this knife will kill demons because it’s blessed by _knowledge_?”

Meira shrugs. “Isn’t that how _you_ manage to kill things other people would call unkillable?” She prompts. “Because you know how?”

Bobby opens his mouth, pauses, then grunts. “Fine. Point made.” He acknowledges. Then he claps his hands to his thighs and stands up. “Let’s get back before those boys start worrying like idjits.” He says, and Meira scrambles to follow.


	2. The Last Living Remnants

**The Roadhouse, Nebraska – Sunday 13 th  August 2006 **

They’re maybe ten minutes from their destination, riding in one of Bobby’s rusty old junkers given the state of the Impala, when Sam turns in the passenger seat to look over his shoulder at Meira. It’s not outright suspicious, which she appreciates after the way Dean has been watching her this past week, but it is considering enough to make her wary. “So, that voicemail wasn’t the only thing I found on Dad’s phones.” Sam says.

“Oh?” Dean asks, glancing at his brother, and then at Meira in the rearview mirror. His expression hardens, and Meira looks away, feeling sick.

“There were two calls, one outgoing, one incoming, from his current phone the day he died.” Sam explains, still watching Meira. “And when I say the day he died, I mean half an hour _after_ he died.” He pauses for a moment, then goes on. “You were the one to go and get his stuff from the hospital, Meira, you know anything about that?”

“Yeah, it was me.” Meira confirms, sliding down in her seat and staring up at the ceiling. “John mentioned that he’d gotten in touch with the Renaldi when he was researching me. Since I don’t have any of my old contacts anymore, I wanted to get Joe’s number off his phone. And then I thought, hell, we’ve just lost the Colt, we could really use some way to kill demons, right? And if anyone knows where to look, it’d be the family that’s been hunting demons since forever, right? So I called him, he called me back.”

Sam perks up a little. “Could they help?”

Meira pulls the knife out of her pocket, flips it over in her hand, and offers it to Sam. “One bonafide demon-killing knife, for your hunting pleasure. I haven’t tested it personally, but I trust Joe. He wouldn’t have given me a dud.”

“Yeah?” Dean challenges. “You got any way we can verify any of this?”

“Bobby can vouch for me.” Meira tells the ceiling tiredly.

“What do these symbols mean? I’ve never seen anything like it.” Sam says, running a finger down the middle of the blade.

Dean glances over at it, then snorts. “I think you’ve been duped.” He says with dark humour as he returns his attention to the road. “That looks like bastardised Elvish.”

“Where do you think Tolkien got the inspiration from?” Meira retorts, grinning despite herself.

“Is this the written form of your mysterious holy language, then?” Dean challenges.

Meira’s grin dies. “Nope, different language. Not holy, just old. Very old. Old as balls.” She says it without thinking, letting her mouth run, and then finds herself wishing Azura was there to high-five her for the antique meme.

“What’s it called?” Sam asks.

Meira hesitates, then closes her eyes and resigns herself to the mockery. “Atlantean.”

“At-” Dean begins, then cuts himself off with a derisive laugh. “Pull the other one, Meira.”

“Atlantis was real?” Sam asks.

Meira tips her head down to stare at him gauging his sincerity, but she can’t read any deception or suspicion on his face, just open curiosity. “Yeah. That whole biblical flood thing, Deucalion and Pyrrha, Yu the Great, Atrahasis, Shraddhadeva Manu, Nanabozho, Bergelmir, Cessair. They were all about the flood sent to destroy Atlantis.”

“I thought the biblical flood was about human sin?” Sam questions.

“And Atlantis was destroyed for its hubris. Which is, you know, a human sin.” Meira points out, and Sam nods his acceptance of her point as he hands the knife back. Meira doesn’t bother to hide her surprise, because she honestly would have expected him to want to keep it.

“Oh, come on, Sam, you can’t be buying this.” Dean complains. “How the hell could she even _know_ any of that in the first place?”

“Because some Atlanteans survived and passed down the story, duh.” Meira retorts. Dean gives her a sceptical look through the mirror, but thankfully, by that point, they’re pulling up outside the Roadhouse, and the conversation is put on hold. No one seems to be about, so of course Sam and Dean decide to break in instead of, oh, waiting for opening time. Meira goes along with it since she’s trying not to make waves with Sam and Dean right now.

That and she’ll admit she’s curious about the roadhouse. Her dad and uncle had mentioned it and the Harvelles once or twice, but mostly it made them sad, and they hadn’t seemed to want to linger on the memory of it. The outside looks run down and battered, but the inside is nicer. Maybe a little worn, but tidy and clean. Except for the guy sleeping on the pool table, anyway. Sam heads into the back, and Meira wanders behind the bar to snoop.

“Oh, god, please let that be a rifle.” Dean says, and Meira whips around. There’s a pretty blonde woman holding a rifle to Dean’s back, and it’s enough of a threat that Meira doesn’t go for her knife, even though she’s tempted.

“No, I’m just real happy to see you.” The young woman replies dryly. “Don’t move, either of you.” She adds, and Meira and Dean both lift their hands into the air.

Meira flicks a glance towards Dean, wondering what the plan is. Dean winks at her, which isn’t very informative, but does let Meira relax a little. “You should know something, Miss.” Dean says lightly. “You put a rifle on someone, you don’t want to put it _right_ against their back. Makes it _real_ easy to do-” He spins, shoving the gun aside and yanking it out of the woman’s hands. “-that.” He finishes, pointedly unloading the gun. Meira smiles and starts to move out from behind the bar.

The woman punches Dean in the face and reclaims her gun. Meira darts forward before she can get the gun levelled again, and slams her up against one of the support posts, knife at her throat and gun useless where it’s pinned between them. “That was pretty smooth.” She compliments. “But d’you mind dropping that?”  
“Yeah, I do.” The woman replies. Meira taps her knife lightly against her throat, and she grits her teeth, but relinquishes the weapon when Meira tugs it out of her grip with her free hand. She moves back just enough to pass it off to Dean. Which is, of course, when the woman’s hand snaps up to grab Meira’s wrist, fingers yanking and ducking sideways at the same time so the knife only scores a shallow nick across her collarbone before she’s driving her shoulder into Meira’s gut.

Meira grunts and slams her elbow down onto the woman’s back, right between her shoulder blades, forcing her to stagger with a cry of pain. It gives Meira enough time to wrench her wrist out of her grasp and kick out at the woman’s knee. She drops, but rolls, and comes up face to face with her own rifle, pointed at her by Dean. It makes her hesitate just long enough for Meira to grab one of her arms and twist it up behind her back with one hand while the other presses knife back to the woman’s throat again.

“You’re a spitfire thing, aren’t you?” Meira asks, amused. “But, seriously, don’t try that again, okay? I don’t actually want to slit your throat.”

Before Jo can answer, the door Sam had disappeared through opens again, revealing Sam with his hands on his head, being walked back into the main room by an older woman pointing a pistol at him. “Sam!” Dean says in alarm.

In the same moment, the older woman’s eyes go wide and she cries “Jo!”

“Looks like we’ve got a stalemate.” Meira comments, keeping her tone mild and non-aggresive. “How about we all put our weapons away and talk this out like civilised people?” She suggests.

“You first.” The older woman very nearly snarls.

Meira considers that, but given that they came here and broke into this woman’s place of business, she figures she can make that concession. So she nods. “Please don’t elbow me in the gut or anything the moment I let go, okay?” She asks lightly.

“No promises.” Jo snarks.

“Joanna-Beth!” The older woman snaps.

“Fine!” Jo huffs.

Meira is grinning as she lets go of Jo’s arm, then carefully moves back, keeping her knife clear of Jo’s throat. Jo takes two quick steps away from her, turning so that she can keep Dean and Meira both in view, and the woman who must be her mother, to full-name her like that, and thus probably the ‘Ellen’ they came here to find, slowly lowers her gun. Sam immediately slumps with a relieved sigh.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, Dean, I’m fine.” Sam assures him quickly.

Ellen looks between the two men in startled realisation. “Sam? Dean?” She echoes. “Winchester?” She checks.

Sam and Dean exchange a look before nodding and saying, in unison, “Yeah.”

“Son of a bitch.” Ellen says in a warm tone of voice, finally tucking her gun away entirely. Meira sheaths her knife. “Well, I’m Ellen. Ellen Harvelle, and you’ve probably figured that’s Jo, my daughter.” Ellen introduces, nodding towards Jo, who looks vaguely confused. Then Ellen looks to Meira with a slightly colder look than the one she’s been directing at Sam and Dean since she realised who they are. “And you are?” She asks like a challenge.

“Meira.” Meira introduces.

“Got a last name to go with that?” Ellen presses, eyebrow arching.

It’s so damn tempting to say ‘Winchester’, but she’s not about to push her luck with Sam and Dean like that right now, so she sighs, and says “Novak.” At least Ellen’s suspicion doesn’t bite as deeply as Sam and Dean’s does.

Ellen notices that Dean is prodding gingerly at his nose, where Jo punched him, and something like a smirk twitches at her lips. “Let me get you some ice for that.” She says, turning away. “Have a seat.” She tosses over her shoulder as she goes, waving towards the bar.

They all claim seats, while Jo slips behind the bar, leaning back against the counter behind it and crossing her arms, watching them all with a faint frown. “No hard feelings?” Meira asks the other woman hopefully.

Jo blinks, then shakes her head and smiles wryly. “Nah, it’s fine. As long as you show me how to do that move you pulled when I tackled you.”

“Deal.” Meira agrees, letting her grin shade towards flirtatious. “I’m always down to get physical with a lady as badass as you.” Jo nearly chokes on an incredulous laugh.

“Oh, come on.” Dean protests.

Meira laughs. “Don’t mind him. He just thinks you’re cute, too, and is sulking cause he didn’t get in a good line first.”

“ _Good_ line?” Jo fires back, grinning, although there’s enough pink in her cheeks to suggest she’s not as indifferent as her words would make her seem.

“Would you prefer a quip about the knife in my pocket?” Meira asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

Ellen returns then, giving Meira the stink-eye as she joins Jo behind the bar. “That’s enough outta you.” She says sternly, leaning over the bar to offer an ice-pack wrapped in a dish-towel to Dean. “Here you go.” He takes it with a murmured word of thanks. “So what brings John Winchester’s boys to my humble saloon?” Ellen asks, bracing her elbows on the bar.

“You’re the one that called our dad.” Dean points out, and Ellen’s eyebrows fly up. “You said you could help. Help with what?”

“Well, the demon, of course. I heard he was closing in on it.” Ellen says. Meira tunes the ensuing conversation out, not interested in rehashing John’s crusade or how Ellen was involved, given the message she left, and the fact that it was four months old, Meira’s bet is that she wasn’t very involved at all. Which hardly surprises her.

“Hey, Jo?” She asks, reaching into her jeans pocket and pulling out her wallet. “I know you guys aren’t technically open, but could I get a coke?”

Jo shrugs. “Sure.” She says, and retrieves the a soda bottle, exchanging it for a couple of bills. “You want a glass with that?”

“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” Meira assures her, bringing the bottle to her lips.

“So, how do you know those two?” Jo asks, watching her curiously.

Meira smiles faintly, a little sadly. “They picked me up in the middle of a wendigo hunt. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, so I stuck around, helping out.” She explains. It’s not even really a lie, but it tastes like one anyway.

Jo nods slowly. “So, you’re a hunter?”

“Yeah.” Meira confirms.

“You know, you don’t see a lot of women hunters.” Jo points out, folding her arms across the bar and raising an eyebrow at Meira. “You gotta be pretty determined to get into it, I bet.”

Meira blinks at her, startled. “Not really?” She offers. She’d never even considered that gender might factor into it at all. “I wasn’t really what you’d call an active hunter until about a year ago, when I met up with Sam and Dean. Then I just fell into it because they do it.”

Jo looks disappointed, and it takes Meira a moment to realise why, but then it dawns on her that Jo must be looking for… if not a role model, then at least an example of women hunters she can use to justify her own desire to be a hunter. “But then, my dads taught me everything they know so that I could choose for myself what sort of life I wanted.” Meira adds, offering Jo a conspiratorial smile. “And I don’t regret becoming a hunter.”

Jo smiles back, but before she can say anything, their attention is grabbed when Ellen yells across the bar.

“Ash!”

The guy sleeping on the pool table, that Meira had nearly forgotten was there in all the excitement, comes awake with a start. “What?” He shouts back, to the tune of the balls clattering into one another as he flails and twists around to try and get Ellen in his line of view. “S’it closing time?” He asks, sleep-blurred and slurring.

“That’s Ash?” Sam asks in disbelief.

“Mhm.” Jo confirms, smirking a little, despite her matter-of-fact tone. “He’s a genius.”

Sam and Dean both look sceptical. “This guy?” Dean asks, while Sam gets up with a murmured ‘one sec’, and heads outside. Ash nearly falls off the pool table, barely manages to catch himself, then staggers over to the bar, knuckling at one eye. “You gotta be kidding me. He’s no genius, he’s a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie.” Dean complains.

It makes Ash smile. “I like you.” He says, dropping onto a barstool and accepting the glass of iced tea that Ellen shoves towards him.

“Thanks.” Dean replies, and his flat tone doesn’t quite cover up his amusement.

Sam returns, and drops a folder down on the bar between his seat and Dean’s. They share a look that speaks volumes about their doubts, and Jo makes a quiet scoffing noise in the back of her throat. “Just give him a chance.” She dares them.

“Alright.” Dean agrees, and slides the folder over to Ash. They discuss the contents, a conversation Meira feels no need to inject herself into, but watches all the same. It’s fascinating, to watch Ash decipher John’s work.

“Can you track it or not?” Sam presses.

“Yeah, with this? I think so.” Ash assures him. “But it’s gonna take time. Uh, gimme…” He trails off, gaze focusing on the middle distance as he works it out in his head. “Fifty-one hours.” He states, casual and without a trace of doubt as he begins stacking together the papers.

Meira is impressed, and she just can’t keep it to herself. “You know, I don’t usually swing that way-” Lie. “-but _that_? That’s hot.”

Ash chuckles. “I aim to please.”

“I bet you do.” Meira agrees salaciously.

“Wow.” Jo says. “Is she always like this?”

Sam and Dean both snort with laughter. “Yeah, pretty much.” Dean says tiredly.

Meira shrugs. “What can I say? Life is short, people are beautiful, and sex is fun.” Then she gives a melodramatic sigh, and leans around Sam to clap Dean on the shoulder briefly. “But I did make a promise.” She reminds them solemnly. “The cute guy is _all yours_ , Dean.”

Dean grimaces at her. “Dude, not funny.” He grouses, but Meira catches him sliding a glance after Ash as he walks away with the file.

She doesn’t comment on it. “It is a little funny.” She says instead.

“Most guys who roll through here’d deck you for a joke like that.” Jo warns Meira, although she looks like she’s trying to hide a smile.

Meria grimaces at the reminder that she’s trapped in the unenlightened past, but then shrugs it off with a slightly vicious grin. “Can’t say I’d mind the excuse to beat some sense into a bunch of homophobic twatwaffles, so it’s win-win.” Jo laughs, shaking her head, and Meira props her chin on her fist, enjoying the sound. Jo catches her watching her, and blushes pink again, ducking her head, before grabbing up a dish-towel and going to keep her hands busy getting the Roadhouse ready for opening.

Meira watches her go, head tipped to the side in thought. Then she gets up to follow her, tucking her hands into her pockets. “Hey, if I’m making you uncomfortable, I can stop.” She offers, because Jo really doesn’t strike her as the shy type, but she’s been consistently dodging Meira’s flirtations.

Jo looks up, then smiles wryly and looks away again, twisting the dish-towel in her hands. “I get flirted with _a lot_.” She says, unimpressed and just a touch bitter. “Pretty much every hunter that rolls through here takes one look at me and thinks I’ll be an easy lay.”

“Sucks.” Meira commiserates.

Jo flashes her a quick but genuine smile. “Yeah, well…” She clears her throat and looks down at the ground, although Meira takes it as a good sign that her smile lingers. “Never been hit on by a woman before.” She admits. “It’s… different.”

Meira makes a noise of understanding and props her shoulder against the wall. “Good different?” She asks hopefully.

Jo tips her head in a gesture that isn’t quite a nod. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Well, let me know when you do.” Meira offers.

Jo smirks. “I will.”

“Hey, Meira! Shift your ass, Sam’s found us a job.” Dean calls across the bar.

Meira heaves a sigh that’s partly for show, partly resignation at the idea of spending yet more time under Dean’s suspicion. “Duty calls.” She says apologetically to Jo, who waves her off with an understanding smile. On impulse, Meira leans in and kisses her cheek. “See you later.” Jo has gone a bit pink again when Meira draws back and turns to follow Dean.

* * *

**Fitchburg, Wisconsin – Monday 14 th  August 2006 **

The moment killer clowns came up, Meira realised she knows this story. It’s always been one of her dad’s favourites to tell, if only because it annoys Uncle Sam. Of course, now that she’s here and living it with them, she’s realising that her dad left quite a lot out of his story. She’d never known it was his first hunt after his dad died, never known he’d picked the hunt up from the Harvelles. Trust her dad to ignore all the emotionally charged aspects of the story as if that might make them go away.

Speaking of emotionally charged things, Meira thinks as she studies the map by torchlight. “Hey, we’re coming up on Fitchburg, and it’s getting so late it’s early. What do you say we stop at the Grants’ motel tonight and say hi?” She suggests.

Dean grunts unhappily, but Sam perks up a little. “That’s a great idea, actually.”

“You two can sleep if you want. I’m good to keep driving.” Dean announces stubbornly.

“Dean.” Sam huffs. “We’re not going to be able to do anything if we get there at four in the morning. We might as well stop and get some sleep, and finish the trip in the morning. The delay won’t cost us anything, and we’ll be better rested once we get there.”

“Looks like you’ve been outvoted, Dean.” Meira concludes cheerfully.

Dean snorts at her. “This car ain’t a democracy, Meira, it’s a dictatorship.”

“This car is an embarrassment.” Meira corrects, and Dean makes a resigned, accepting noise.

“And if it were a dictatorship, then this would be your disgruntled populace staging a revolution.” Sam informs him, amused. “If you don’t take the turning into Fitchburg, I’m going to find a top forty radio station and turn it up as loud as it’ll go.” He threatens.

“Jesus, fine.” Dean huffs.

“Why are you so against stopping?” Sam wonders, shaking his head.

“I’m not _against it_ ,” Dean lies, “I just don’t see the point.”

“The point is maintaining connections, forging friendships, and maybe getting laid.” Meira informs him. “Because I’m pretty sure Joanne is single. I didn’t see a wedding ring, anyway.” Sam mutters an exasperated oath, and Dean cracks a reluctant smile.

They find the motel at two in the morning, and Meira is disappointed to find that there’s an unfamiliar guy standing at the counter, looking bored. They book themselves a couple of rooms without any of Michael’s entertaining commentary, and crash for a few hours.

The next morning, Dean gets them up when the sun’s barely been up for an hour. He doesn’t look very happy to be awake at that hour either, but that doesn’t seem to stop him wanting to share the pain. Meira scrubs her system with grace, and is deliberately chipper in the face of Dean’s grumpy silence as a form of revenge.

This time, when they go to check out, the face behind the counter is a familiar one. “Hey, Michael.” Meira greets brightly at the teenager slumped sullenly over the counter. “Remember us?”

Michael perks up a little in surprise, then snorts at Meira’s question. “Be a bit hard to _forget_.” He snarks at her, then his expression hardens. “Is there something… going on?” He asks warily, glancing between them all.

“No.” Dean assures him quickly. “We’re just passing through, thought we’d stop by and say hi, since we needed a place to crash for the night anyway.” He explains, without mentioning his reluctance to do so in the first place.

Michael nods, and smiles in relief. “Cool.”

“We’re actually looking for a killer clown up in Mishicot.” Meira tells him, before the conversation can falter.

Michael pulls a face. “Oh, yeah, I heard about that.” He hesitates, then looks between them again. “You think it’s something like the- the shtriga?” He asks, somewhere between curious and wary.

“Something like, anyway.” Sam offers wryly. “Probably isn’t a shtriga this time.”

“Speaking of,” Dean interjects, “how’s Asher doing? He still okay?”

Michael brightens as he nods. “Yeah, he’s been fine. A complete _brat_ , but fine.”

“Little brothers are always brats.” Dean commiserates.

“Hey!” Sam protests.

“Outvoted, Sam.” Meira chips in, bright and annoying. Sam glowers at her, and Michael snickers at him. “So, how’s your summer been? Your mom’s got you helping out here in the mornings, huh?”

Michael groans dramatically, slumping back over the counter. “It’s _awful_. I’m supposed to be able to sleep in over the holidays, but _no_ , mom says if I’m old enough to watch the counter in the evenings, I can watch it in the mornings, too.”

“Not every morning, I hope?” Dean asks, sounding horrified.

“No.” Michael agrees, letting his head roll to the side. “Just a couple of days a week. She says it’ll be good practice for when I get a summer job. Yuck.”

Sam makes a thoughtful noise. “It can’t be that far off for you. You’re already in highschool, aren’t you?” He asks shrewdly.

That makes Michael sit up straight again, looking kind of proud. “Starting this year.” He confirms, and they listen to him enthuse a little about starting a new school, not having to hang out with baby middle school students any more. He laments the fact that some of his friends are going to a different high school, but shakes that off pretty quickly, and looks back at them as if just remembering that he’s having a conversation, not monologuing. “So, what’ve you guys been doing this summer?” He asks quickly, looking just a little bit sheepish.

Meira thinks back, and then grimaces a little, glancing over at Sam and Dean, who are both coming to the realisation that not much has happened in the last couple of months that they’d be willing to talk about. “Well, we did come across a haunted painting.” Meira offers up.

“No _way_.” Michael says enthusiastically. “Really?”

Meira cheerfully tells the story, amused that Michael seems entertained by the gory details of the deaths, even though the revelation of the killer’s identity and a subtle reminder that these are real people getting really hurt makes him grimace. “Well, we’ve gotta hit the road.” Dean says once Meira’s done, dropping the keys to their rooms on the counter. Michael nods, grabbing for the guest log to mark down that they’ve checked out. “It was good seeing you, kid.”

“Yeah.” Michael agrees. “You too.”

* * *

**Mishicot, Wisconsin – Monday 14 th  August 2006 **

Meira perches cross-legged on the edge of the waltzer while Dean goes off to find out why the police are there, and tries to figure out what the hell she’s supposed to do now. It’s not like she can just up and tell Sam and Dean that it’s a rakshasa, but not saying anything at all sits wrong with her. She slumps over the lowest guard rail of the fence and groans. “I should have just stayed at the Roadhouse.” She complains to the grass. “Maybe Jo and Ash would’ve agreed to a threesome.”

Sam snorts. “I doubt it. And besides, Ash has work to do.” Meira grumbles, reluctant to admit that he’s right, but unable to argue. “Why so reluctant?” Sam challenges.

“Besides killer clowns being just generally creepy?” Meira asks wryly, and Sam tips an acknowledging grimace in her direction. Sighing heavily, Meira sits up straight again. “I don’t want to hang about where I’m not wanted, Sam, and Dean’s been making it pretty clear he doesn’t trust me anymore.” She points out, then side-eyes him. “You, too, although you’ve been subtler about it.”

Sam turns to face her fully, watching her with an impassive stare. “You’ve gotta admit, the lengths Dad went to, to keep you away from us at the end there, that’s pretty damning. I know he was a paranoid bastard, but he usually needs a damn good reason to tie someone up in a warehouse.”

“And yet, you’re still letting me hunt with you?” Meira challenges tiredly.

“I called Missouri.” Sam tells her, and Meira’s eyebrows jump upwards. She can’t help but tense a little, going back over all of her conversations with Sam over the past week and a half, trying to figure out if Missouri told him anything. Sam huffs a laugh. “She wouldn’t tell me whatever secrets you’re keeping, don’t worry, but she vouched for you.”

Meira smiles lopsidedly, warmed through. She makes a mental note to call Missouri herself just to tell her how much she appreciates the hell out of her. “Yeah? What’d she say?”

“That if we drove you away from the only family you’ve managed to scrape together, she’d hunt us down and beat some sense into us with a rolling pin.” Sam told her, grinning faintly. Meira laughs, and underlines her mental note. “She’s one scary lady.”

“Damn straight she is.” Meira agrees fondly.

Dean rejoins them barely a minute later, reporting that there was another couple of murders the night before, parents ripped to shreds by a vanishing clown. “Dean, you know, looking for a cursed object is like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles. It could be anything.” Sam points out.

“Why are we so sure it’s a ghost?” Meira asks, unable to help herself.

Sam and Dean both turn to stare at her. “Did you miss the ‘vanishing into thin air’ part?” Dean reminds her incredulously.

Meira rolls her eyes at him. “ _No_ , but it’s not just ghosts that can do that. Some things can turn invisible, some things can freaking teleport. Some witches can cast spells for that, the higher tier pagan gods, some demons, reapers. Shojo spirits are invisible unless you’re drunk, the naga can turn invisible at will, and so can rakshasa, and qilin. Banshees are invisible unless you’re close to death, and so are hellhounds.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure we can rule out hellhounds.” Dean says. “And banshees and reapers, since the kids survived, and they could see it. The shojo-whatsit, too, cause I don’t figure eight year olds’ are getting drunk after going to the carnival.”

Meira nods. “Naga and qilin are generally benign, and I have a really hard time believing a demon would be dressing up as a _clown_ to kill people.”

Sam snorts. “So we’re left with, what? Witches, pagan gods, and uh…”  
“Rakshasas.” Meira finishes for him.

“It could still be a ghost.” Dean adds stubbornly.

“So that’s _four_ different things to check for.” Sam concludes, pulling a face. “I know how to find a witch, but I’ve never even heard of rakshasas before, and pagan gods come in _all_ different shapes and sizes.” He points out.

“Rakshasas line their dens with dead insects.” Meira says, helpfully. “But you’re right about pagan gods. Probably better to rule out the others before we start digging into that option.”

“So we need to be looking for dark altars, dead insects, and anything that gives off EMF.” Sam says on a sigh. “In a carnival we have absolutely no reason to be hanging about in.”

“There’s a reason.” Dean says, pointing to sign that says ‘Help Wanted’.

Meira slithers out from behind the safety barrier, dropping to the grass and straightening out her coat. “You guys go ahead, I want to go get my brass knife from the car.” She says, patting her pocket. “I’ll meet up with you in five.”

“Brass knife?” Sam asks.

“Only thing that’ll kill a rakshasa.” Meira explains, then shrugs. “And if it’s a witch, brass’ll work just as well as anything else.” Sam nods, and Meira heads back to the car to collect said knife. While they were at Bobby’s, she’d sewn another hidden sheath into her other coat pocket so that she could carry both the demon-killing knife and any more specific weapon she might need at the same time, and that’s where the bronze knife goes now. Then she goes after Sam and Dean.

Sam convinces Mr Cooper to give them jobs, and they scatter out into the carnival to pick up trash and look for anything suspicious. Meira angles her steps towards the trailers that count as the carnival workers’ homes. They’re likely to be empty at this time of day, when the carnival’s open and everyone’s working, and she’d like to have verifiable proof before she says anything to Sam and Dean.

There’s less trash to pretend to be picking up in the areas where customers don’t go, so Meira doesn’t pretend that’s what she’s doing, just makes her stride purposeful and mulls over what lie she could tell if she gets called out. She doesn’t know which trailer belongs to the not-actually-blind knife-thrower, and while the trailers have names on them, she doesn’t know the knife-thrower’s name, so she resigns herself to checking all of them.

It takes far too long, but eventually, she finds a trailer with a bed whose mattress crinkles when she prods it. Pulling out her knife, Meira makes a little slit in the mattress, and sure enough, a handful of empty carapaces rain out onto the floor. She sweeps them up, folding the edges of the new tear in the mattress together to prevent any more from spilling out, and then leaves, pulling out her phone as she goes. Dean picks up on the first ring. “Meira?”

“It’s a rakshasa, and his name is Barry Papazian. Any idea who that is?” She asks him.

“How the hell do you know that?” Dean demands.

“Because I’ve been checking the trailers, and Barry’s bed is full of insects. Should I have taken fucking pictures?” Meira snaps back.

“Fine, whatever.” Dean huffs. “Well, whoever he is, I think we’ve found his next victims. I’ll call you once they leave the carnival.” He hangs up before Meira can respond. Any hint of a good mood that Meira might have had after talking to Sam dies, and she shoves her phone into her pocket with a little more force than is strictly necessary. The worst part, she thinks darkly, is that there’s really nothing she can do about it. Even if she told Dean everything she’s been keeping secret, she’s pretty damn sure it wouldn’t actually do anything about his suspicion.

Meira goes back to doing her job. It takes long enough that she begins to wonder if Dean’s going to call her at all. Maybe he doesn’t want her at his back on a hunt anymore. Eventually, though, he does call and tell her to meet him and Sam back at the car. Then they hit the road. Meira doesn’t bother to ask how they know where to go, she can figure out the basics for herself, and the rest, well, she trusts them.

Stake out is, as ever, a pain. Meira might be angel enough that sleep is more of a luxury than a necessity, but she’s human enough to get bored very easily. Dean falls asleep twenty minutes in, but Sam stays awake. “I can take first watch.” She offers when she realises he’s not going to follow his brother’s lead and catch some shut-eye while he can.

Sam gives her a quick, almost apologetic smile that goes through Meira like a knife. Right. They don’t trust her. “Alright.” She says, flopping down across the back seat. It’s not a bench-seat like the Impala, so it’s really not as comfortable, but Meira’s too pissed off to care. “You can take the first watch. Wake me when the clowns attack.” She only feels a little bad when Sam winces.

* * *

**Mishicot, Wisconsin – Tuesday 15 th  August 2006 **

“Dean! Meira!”

Meira wakes with a start, mumbling a bleary question before her brain catches back up with the situation, and she’s out of the car in seconds. “You got your knife on you?” Dean asks as they scramble across the neat lawn.

“Of course.” Meira assures him, and then, because she’s a masochist; “Would you like to do the honours?” She even goes so far as to hold the knife out to Dean as Sam eases the back door open and edges inside first.

Dean visibly considers it, then shakes his head. “Nah, it’s all yours.”

Meira isn’t sure whether to take that as a good sign, or a bad one, so she just shrugs and follows Sam into the house. She can hear the girl talking from the living room, a cheerful stream of chatter that makes Meira want to kill this thing even more than she already did. Violating the trust of a child like this is just obscene.

Then, the sound of her voice grows louder, closer, and the three of them duck into doorways or behind corners. “-see Mommy and Daddy?” The girl is asking. “They’re upstairs.” Meira holds her breath, waiting until the girl and then the rakshasa walk past her hiding place, and then she slips out, knife in hand, and drives it into the rakshasa’s back. It jerks, lets out a wail like a rusty door hinge, and the little girl starts to scream.

Meira wrenches her knife free as the rakshasa flickers between visible and invisible, collapsing to its knees. On the floor above, a light flicks on. “Shit! Time to go!” Dean swears, shoving Sam towards the door. Meira follows, casting one quick glance back to make sure that the thing is dead. Sure enough, what she sees is the clown suit and wig, lying on the floor, visible and empty, and the little girl kneeling beside them, screaming her head off.

She feels bad about that, but she’s not exactly going to stick around to explain when she can hear the girl’s parents thundering down the stairs. She turns away and bolts for the car.

* * *

**The Roadhouse, Nebraska – Tuesday 15 th  August 2006 **

“Hey, you’re right on time!” is how Ash greets them when they step into the Roadhouse.

“You found it?” Sam asks, sharp and urgent.

Ash shakes his head with a grimace. “It’s nowhere around. At least, nowhere I can find.” He says, and Meira doesn’t really need to know more than that. It’s nothing she wasn’t expecting, anyway, and Jo is watching her kind of intently from the other side of the room, so she leaves Sam and Dean to quiz Ash up one side and down the other about the demon, and heads over.

“Hey.” Jo greets as she gets close.

“Hey.” Meira replies, grinning and very obviously checking her out. Jo smirks back, far less flustered than before, and Meira guesses she’s figured herself out, at least in the short term. But instead of making any moves, Jo’s eyes flicker around the room, before her smirk turns wry, and she goes back to cleaning the table. Well, Meira can be discrete, if that’s what Jo wants. “You want any help with that?” She asks lightly.

Jo glances up at her, then smiles, sincere and warm. “Yeah, thanks.” She says, finishing the wipe-down, and then pointing Meira towards the next table. “Help me collect up all the beer bottles?” She requests. Meira obligingly fills her hands, while Jo does the same with plates and glasses, and Meira trails Jo into the back room, which turns out to be, predictably, the kitchen.

They deposit the washing up on the side, and then Jo turns to face Meira. “So…” She begins, just a touch uncertain, but she’s watching Meira from under her lashes very intently indeed.

Meira steps in closer, brushing her knuckles across Jo’s cheek, checking her welcome before she leans in. Jo doesn’t appreciate the careful approach, though, surging forwards and getting her arms around Meira’s neck as their mouths meet. Meira doesn’t hesitate to match her, curling her arms around Jo’s waist and hauling the other woman in against her, chest to thighs.

There’s something about this that’s strangely freeing. For just a few minutes, Meira can forget _everything_ else and just indulge feeling _good_. She can forget she’s in the past, with the taste of Jo’s soul on her lips, bright-sharp and sweet, and as long as she doesn’t push to actually touch it, she can pretend she’s not trapped like a bug in amber.

It’s a little frantic, deep and messy and grasping. At some point, Meira feels her back hit a wall as Jo pins her there with all her bodyweight and makes a sound of shocked pleasure, like it’s been punched out of her. Meira has to laugh, and it breaks the kiss, but Jo doesn’t waste any time in moving her mouth to Meira’s jaw, her neck, sucking bruises into the skin that Meira refuses to heal. “You like this?” Meira asks breathlessly, getting her hands under Jo’s top and dragging her palms up over her ribs.

“Never been with anyone who’d let me pin _them_ before.” Jo admits.

“Bastards,” is Meira’s opinion. “Think you’re strong enough to pick me up?”

“God, yes.” Jo breathes, and immediately gets her hands under Meira’s thighs. Meira hooks her knees over Jo’s hips, and Jo gives a small grunt of effort, but holds her up. Even with the wall doing some of the work, since Meira’s still pinned between it and Jo, it’s impressive, and Meira kisses her again in appreciation.

“Meira? We’re- _Whoa_!”

Breaking the kiss, Meira catches a glimpse of Dean staring at them like he’s just been whacked over the head, before she drops her forehead to Jo’s shoulder and lets out a quiet groan of abject mortification. Anyone else, _anyone_ , even her dad from her own time, would’ve been better than having _this_ version of Dean walk in on her with her legs wrapped around another woman, never mind that they’re both still fully clothed. “Time to go?” Meira asks, resigned.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Dean snorts. “Well, me and Sam are heading out.” He corrects, and Meira is glad her face is already hidden. “You can come or stay, whichever.” Then the door thumps again as he turns and leaves.

Meira sighs, presses a quick kiss to the skin of Jo’s shoulder where it’s visible above the collar of her t-shirt, then unhooks her ankles. Jo takes the hint and puts her down, although she’s frowning a little when she leans back. “You’re going?” She asks, almost managing to sound neutral.

“If you think Dean wouldn’t leave me behind, you haven’t been paying very much attention.” She says ruefully.

Jo purses her lips. “Yeah, I got the feeling there are some issues there. Bad break-up?”

Meira blanches. “No! God, no. His dad thought I was a demon, or maybe a witch, I wasn’t very clear on that. Either way, now Dean’s half convinced I’m some sort of hellspawn and can’t be trusted or something. I don’t know. I haven’t exactly asked for details.”

“So why not stay?” Jo asks, watching her with clear puzzlement. “You could, you know. We’ve got a couple spare beds even if you don’t want to share mine.”

That brings a smile to Meira’s face, even though she knows she’s not going to take Jo up on it. Jo clearly reads that on her face, because she nods and backs up another couple of steps. “They just lost their dad.” She reminds Jo softly, and she grimaces with the sort of sympathy that tells Meira she knows exactly what it’s like. “They were there for me when I lost my family. How could I do anything less for them now?” She asks, but it’s a rhetorical question.

“I get it.” Jo assures her.

“I will take your number though.” Meira says, a little brighter, a little more cheeky. “Maybe we can hook up some other time, if you’re still up for it.”

Jo eyes for her a long moment, then snorts. “Sure.” She agrees, and they exchange phone numbers. Then Meira pulls her back in for one more kiss before she heads out. Ellen gives her a disapproving sort of look on her way past, which doesn’t faze her in the least, and Ash waves casually without actually looking up from his frankenstein of a laptop.

When she gets outside, the rusted up old minivan is already running. She breaks into a jog and hops into the back seat. “Didn’t think you were coming.” Dean says, clearly trying to be provocative.

“Bros before hoes, dude.” Meira retorts in her most obnoxiously cheerful voice.

“Whatever.” Dean huffs.

* * *

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota – Wednesday 16 th  August 2006 **

Meira likes Bobby’s house. In a strange way, it reminds her of home. It’s not really all that similar; it’s smaller, it’s way more cluttered, it’s older and more run-down, it’s a hell of a lot quieter. But the place smells like old books and motor oil and fresh air, and that much is exactly like home. Curling up on the bench-seat under the window with Rumsfeld sprawled across her lap and a book older than some civilisations propped up against his warm flank is exactly like home.

“Is that… Ohgam?”

Glancing back, Meira finds Sam peering over her shoulder. His attention is focused on the book, but that doesn’t entirely hide the fact that he looks about three seconds away from crying. “Mm.” Meira confirms absently. “You okay?”

Sam laughs, ugly and laced with tears. “No, not really. I guess it’s just… finally starting to sink in, you know? That he’s- he’s gone.” He closes his eyes for a moment, clearly marshalling himself. “Never mind. I didn’t know you could read Ohgam.”

Meira’s about to answer when there’s a crash from outside like shattering glass, followed by the muffled thunks of metal on metal. Rumsfeld’s head comes up, and a low growl rumbles through his chest. “It’s probably just Dean.” Sam tells Meira before she can scramble out from under the dog. “We, uh… we had a bit of a talk. About Dad.” He explains, looking away.

Meira slumps, and puts a hand on Rumsfeld’s back. “Easy, boy. Down.” She orders, and Rumsfeld slowly lowers his head back down onto his paws. Now that she knows the origin of the noise, though, she can’t help but wince at every muted clang that echoes across the salvage yard. Normally, when Dad gets into a mood like this, Qaada is the one to go to him, to keep him company, but Qaada isn’t here, and even if he were, Meira’s pretty sure Dad wouldn’t be any more willing to have an emotion in front of him than he would be with Sam or Meira.

Sam distracts her by sitting down heavily on the chair nearby, and rubbing a hand over his face. Meira wishes she had some comfort to offer, but she doesn’t. “My Qaada taught me.” She explains, and Sam stares at her, uncomprehending, until she gestures at the book, comprised of collected etchings and copies of various carvings in ohgam. “He taught me a bunch of different alphabets and languages.” In truth, being an angel, communication of all forms are instinctive. She can look at a symbol and just _know_ what it meant to the people who wrote it. Well, she _could_. Now, it’s only thanks to her memory that she can read this text, because she’s seen these symbols before, often enough to know their general meaning.

“Yeah? Must’ve been fun.” Sam says.

“It was.” Meira agrees wistfully.

Sam huffs a laugh that isn’t anywhere in the vicinity of cheerful. “Dad tried to teach me Latin once.” He says in a tone of revelation, like it’s a memory he’d forgotten he had. “Or at least, the important bits of it. But that was when I was right in the middle of my rebellious phase. I bungled everything on purpose.” He laughs again, and it turns into sob before he can stop it. “At the time, I thought I was being so smart, but looking back, I’m pretty sure he knew what I was up to.” He shakes his head, swallowing a couple of times before he can continue. “He gave it up as a bad job in the end, but I picked up more than a little even though the haze of righteous teenage angst. So when I went to college and I needed a language course, I picked Latin.”

“Always a good fallback for hunters.” Meira says wryly.

“And lawyers.” Sam agrees in the same sort of tone. They share a moment of companionable silence, and then Sam picks up a book off Bobby’s desk and starts leafing through it far too fast to actually be reading anything. Meira realises that the noise from outside has stopped. She wonders for a moment, if she ought to leave well enough alone. It’s not like Dean is likely to welcome her company right now, but… Like she said to Jo, it hardly matters if Sam and Dean _want_ her around right now. She can’t quite bring herself to abandon them yet.

So she gets up and goes to the kitchen, with Rumsfeld dancing along at her heels, to fetch a bottle of rotgut, because Bobby doesn’t keep any other kind of whiskey in the house, and a couple of glasses. Then she heads towards the back. Sam glances up at her, but the only sign of disapproval he gives is a tightening of his mouth, before he ducks back over his book.

“Stay.” Meira commands, patting Rumsfeld on the head as she opens the door, before she remembers that this is the past, before her dad went to Hell and got his phobia of dogs. Still, she figures there’s no real reason to take it back, and scans the junkyard for Dean. She finds him sitting on the trunk of the Impala, heels on the bumper and arms folded across his knees.

Wordlessly, she joins him, leaning her ass back against the trunk, and propping the two glasses on the metal beside her before filling them far too full of alcohol. Dean takes the glass when she offers it, and throws back half of it. “What, no candy this time?” He asks, like it’s meant to be a joke, except for the fact that his tone is far too flat for it to be anywhere close to humorous.

“Somehow, I don’t think Bobby’s hiding his skittles at the back of the veggie rack.” Meira retorts through a smirk. “And if he is, shame on you for not telling me sooner, because that would be hilarious and awesome.”

Dean snorts, but doesn’t grace her words with any more of a reply. “What are you doing here, Meira?” He asks hollowly, before tossing back the rest of his glass. Meira refills it before she replies. She figures he’s not just asking about why she’s out there in the salvage yard with him right now, but why she came back from the Roadhouse at all.

“Returning the favour.” She says simply, because that’s the only truth she can tell right now.

“Look, I don’t do the touchy-feely chick-flick crap, alright? I’m not going to cry on your shoulder and hug it out.” Dean spits.

Meira snorts at him. “Yeah, no, I kind of figured that out.” She retorts, not pulling her punches, but delivering them with humour anyway. “Even if I hadn’t already, the racket earlier would have clued me in that you’d take violence over cuddles.”

Dean doesn’t answer that, just looks away and sips with more moderation at the whiskey. “Almost took a crowbar to her.” He says suddenly, patting the metal he’s sitting on to indicate what he means. “Still kind of want to.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Do klabautermann feel shit?” Dean counters, which isn’t an answer, except for all the ways it is.

Meira sighs and slides down a bit against the trunk to cross her legs at the ankle. “I don’t know.” She admits. “Probably not the same way we do, if at all. I imagine… they feel the _intent_ of an attack, more than any physical damage their anchor takes.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“To put it in touchy-feely chick-flick terms?” Meira mocks lightly. “I think she wouldn’t take it personally, because she understands your pain.” Dean snorts, and Meira shrugs. “But who knows? Maybe it’d hurt her worse if _you_ of all people came at her with intent to damage, rather than fix.”

Dean heaves a great sigh. “Yeah.” He says simply.

They sit together in silence for a long while after that. Meira isn’t exactly good at sitting still most of the time, but she puts in a little bit of effort right now. Still, eventually the silence gets the better of her. “I’m sorry.” She says finally.

“For what?” Dean asks flatly.

“I don’t know, exactly.” Meira admits with a snort. “Not being able to help? Not being able to stop John? For whatever I did that made him think I was some sort of demon or something? I just… Yeah, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you guys when you needed it.”

Dean shakes his head, but Meira isn’t sure if he means it as a dismissal or not. “What could you even have done, anyway?” He asks hollowly.

Meira can’t exactly tell him that she was planning to heal him so that his dad didn’t need to make a demon deal in the first place. “I don’t know.” She says again. “Something.”

“I guess I’m sorry, too.” Dean says, but it doesn’t sound like an apology, exactly.

“For what?” Meira asks lightly.

Dean huffs like he doesn’t have the energy to laugh properly. “That you won’t tell us whatever it is you’re hiding.” He says, and Meira winces.

She looks away, chewing over any number of responses before pulling up a wry smile. “A girl’s gotta have a few secrets, Dean.” She counters. Dean doesn’t respond to that with words, either, just snorts, shakes his head, and drains what whiskey is left in his glass.


	3. It's in the Blood

**Red Lodge, Montana – Thursday 24 th August 2006 **

Meira has a bad feeling about this case. She tries not to let on, because Dean’s in a good mood for the first time in weeks, which has put Sam in a good mood, and she doesn’t want to bring them down. She tries to tell herself that it could be a demon, or even a witch, or some sort of pagan god, but she’s not very good at convincing herself.

While Sam and Dean are bickering about who should open up the box with the latest victim’s head in it, Meira just steps between them and takes it, dumping it on the table and opening it up. She can feel Sam and Dean come up to her back to look over her shoulders, but she ignores them, going straight for the mouth because she _has_ to check. Once she’s sure they’re _not_ vampires being hunted for trying to live a human-friendly life, she can relax.

But of course she’s not that lucky. On lifting the dead woman’s upper lip, she finds the fang slits she _knew_ would be there. “Whoa.” Dean says. “What is that?”

Meira sighs, and presses on the gum so that the fang slides out. “Vampire fangs.” She tells him hollowly, stripping off her gloves with jerky motions. “She was a vampire.”

“Well, this changes things.” Sam says.

Meira slams the lid back on the box. “I don’t see why.” She bites out.

“What do you mean?” Sam asks, sounding genuinely bewildered.

“Show me _proof_ that she deserved this.” Meira demands, all but throwing the box back onto the slab and shoving it back into its cubby.

“Dude, you just found it.” Dean tells her.

“No, I found proof that she has a scary set of chompers.” Meira corrects. “Well, so does Rumsfeld, and you don’t see anyone suggesting _he_ deserves to have his head chopped off.”

“Oh, god. Not this again.” Dean groans. “Meira, do you remember what happened the _last time_ you tried to make nice with a vampire? Cause I sure do!”

Meira has a whole list of extenuating circumstances for that, not to mention the fact that when your sample size is _one_ , it’s not exactly definitive. She doesn’t say any of that, though, doesn’t want to have this argument. Not now, not when she’s already so close to losing them anyway. “I’m perfectly willing to look for proof that they need to be killed, if you’re willing to look at the proof that they don’t.” She counters.

“The hell does that mean?”

“It means; who do you _think_ mutilated those cows?” Meira explodes, spinning to face him and flinging her arm wide in a gesture towards the area in general. “ _Cows_ , not _people_ , asshole! If you’re going to condemn someone to death for eating cows, you’d sure as hell better be willing to put _your_ head on the chopping block right next to theirs!”

“She has a point, Dean.” Sam says quietly.

“Not you, too, Sam!” Dean groans.

Sam shrugs. “I’m just saying, maybe we ought to take a closer look at this one before we jump to conclusions. We’ll do some research, see if there are any missing persons around the area. We’ll see if we can’t find the vampire’s nest, see if they’re keeping anyone there or not. _Then_ we can decide how to handle this, okay?” He prompts hopefully.

“Fine, sure, whatever.” Dean huffs.

No mention of the hunter who did this, Meira notices bitterly, no mention of checking up on _them_ to see if they’re a murderous psycho or not. But she lets it go, because her hands are already shaking and she feels sick to her stomach and she just wants to go _home_. Instead, she follows Sam and Dean out of the morgue without a word.

They get themselves a motel room and Meira helps Dean put together a map of the murders and the cattle mutilations, while Sam trawls a bunch of newspapers and the internet for recent missing persons reports in the area. He comes up with one teenage girl who’d been found a week later one state over with her boyfriend. “Just because there are no reports doesn’t mean no one’s been taken.” Dean says ominously. At Meira’s scathing look, he holds his hands up. “Just saying, it only means that if anyone is going missing, it’s people no one cares about.”

“Well, let’s see if we can find the nest.” Sam says, before Meira can retort. “See for ourselves.”

Meira decides it’s easier not to argue. They trawl through the bars, pubs, and various watering holes in the area where the murders and mutilations have been occurring, asking after any groups of people who moved into town six months ago who’re also night owls and party animals. Meira bites back the urge to tell them that not all vampires are hedonistic sociopaths, because, hell, if they won’t believe that not all vampires are predatory psychopaths, then why the hell would they believe they could be even more moderate?

They’re already on their third bar of the evening when Meira does a double take at the bartender. “Benny?” She blurts out, hope rising in her heart for a moment before crashing when she remembers that, no, Benny would be dead in this time.

The bartender stares at her, eyebrows rising. “Sorry.” He says wryly, although the lightness of his tone is belied by the way he’s watching her, wary and assessing. “You’d be mistaking me for my cousin. I’m Eli.” He introduces himself, holding a hand out over the bar. Meira shakes it.

“Meira.” She replies warmly. “And this is Sam and Dean.”

Eli nods to her, then glances over her shoulder to Sam and Dean. “Can I get you anything?” He asks.

“The fruitiest, frilliest thing you sell.” Meira orders at once, and Eli quirks a lopsided grin. “And a couple of beers for these two losers.” She adds, and grins at Dean’s protest. They get their beers in short order, while it takes a little longer for Eli to mix together something bright yellow in a cocktail glass.

“How’d you know Benny, then?” Eli asks as he’s working.

Meira braces her elbows on the bar. “He’s– He _was_ my dad’s best friend. Practically family.” She cocks her head and considers Eli. Chances are she’s just found their vampires, or at least one of them, although Meira has to wonder at the coincidence of one of Benny’s human family _also_ ending up a vampire. “I didn’t think he had any of his own left.” She adds mildly.

“We fell out of touch a _long_ time ago.” Eli admits, a little sombre, watching her carefully as he slides the cocktail towards her. He names the price of the drinks, and Meira hands over a wad of bills without bothering to count them too carefully. Whatever’s left over can be a tip. “I actually ended up here cause I was looking for him. You know where I can find him?” Meira grimaces, and Eli nods ruefully. “You said ‘was’.” He concludes grimly.

Meira sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

“What happened to him?”

“Would you believe me if I said pirates?” Meira asks, wry and wincing in preparation of his disbelief and scepticism.

Eli stares at her, unmoving, for a long moment, and then he groans, pressing forefinger and thumb into his eyes like he’s getting a headache. “Fuck’s sake, Benny.” He mutters. It makes Meira laugh a little, because even if the resemblance hadn’t convinced her, that reaction is pure, exasperated familiarity.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” Meira offers, wishing that Sam and Dean weren’t there so that she could give him some hope.

Eli waves that off, clears his throat, and goes to serve another patron. “Pirates?” Dean asks, leaning against the bar.

“True story.” Meira confirms.

Dean eyes her sideways, and there’s a look on his face that makes Meira’s stomach turn over with dread. Her good mood at finding a connection, however tenuous, to the people she loves withers and dies with the reminder that _these_ connections don’t trust her worth a damn. Then Dean puts his beer down, unopened, and turns to go.

“Dean?” Sam asks, startled.

“You know,” Dean says, deliberately casual, “I don’t think you ever got around to telling us that story about the vampirates.”

Meira huffs humourlessly, following in his wake. “I didn’t, did I?”

“Funny coincidence, that.” Dean goes on idly, standing out on the street to wait for them, hands shoved into his pockets. “Except, what was it you always say about coincidences?”

“No such thing.” Meira agrees tiredly.

Dean glares at her for several long seconds. “That’s it?” He asks eventually. “That’s all you’re going to say? You’re not even going to explain _now_?”

“I didn’t think I needed to spell it out for you.” Meira snipes back.

“Come on, guys.” Sam sighs. “Is the sidewalk really the place for this? Unless there’s something sticking your shoes to the floor, can we go back to the motel and get some sleep? This argument will still be there to be had in the morning.”

Meira has to fight not to react. It’s not the exact codeword her dad taught her, but it’s close enough and a weird enough choice of phrase that she’s pretty sure she’s not imagining the significance. Which she isn’t supposed to understand, because _this_ Sam and Dean haven’t taught her all their code words yet.

“Yeah, okay, fine.” Dean huffs, turning and starting to walk away. Sam falls into step with him, but Meira doesn’t move. It takes Dean a moment to realise, but then he stops and looks back, scowling up a storm. “You coming or what?” He snaps out.

If someone’s watching them, it’s either the vampires, in which case Sam and Dean can take care of themselves, or it’s the hunter, in which case, Meira may have just blown Eli’s cover to him, too. “Actually,” she says, voice shaking a little despite herself, “I thought I’d hang out here for a bit.” She gestures back at the bar. “Never got to finish my drink, after all.” She points out with a bullshit smile.

“Your funeral.” Dean bites out.

“We’ll see.” Meira retorts, then heads back inside. Eli is still at the bar, and his eyebrows rise when he sees her walking back in.

“Thought your friends dragged you out of here already.” He comments as she reclaims her seat.

Meira snorts miserably and folds her arms across the bar to drop her head onto. “They tried, but I’m a stubborn bitch when I need to be. You know you’re in danger, right?” She checks, glancing up at him just in time to see his expression shutter.

“From your friends?” Eli asks darkly.

“Maybe.” It hurts Meira just to say the word, and she closes her eyes against it. “God, I hope not.”

“Really?” Eli challenges, although whether his disbelief is for her hope or her honesty, she can’t actually tell.

Meira shoots him a baleful glare. She’s pretty sure it doesn’t have the effect it ought to when she’s still hiding behind her folded arms. “Really, asshole. I know most hunters are close-minded killers, but that doesn’t mean they all are. I’m allowed to hope that these two can prove themselves better than that.”

“Benefit of the doubt is how my family ends up dead.” Eli counters.

“Pretty sure they’d say the same thing about you.” Meira fires back at once.

Eli glares at her some more, and she grins into the face of it. Someone else comes up to the bar, and Eli has to break off their staring contest to serve them, but once they’ve wandered off to a table, he’s back again, expression set. “So what’s _your_ deal?” Eli asks. “You walk in here with a couple of hunters, but you talk like you ain’t one of them.”

“Oh, I’m just your friendly neighbourhood abomination.” Meira says with faux-cheer.

“Abomination?” Eli echoes sceptically.

Meira can feel her smile slip sideways on her face, into something that hurts to maintain. “Why do you think I want them to prove me right so badly?” Eli grunts an acknowledgement, and doesn’t press the point any further. Meira is obscurely grateful.

* * *

**Red Lodge, Montana – Firday 25 th  August 2006 **

Meira stays at the bar until Eli’s shift ends, and then she follows him to his car. He’s clearly ticked off that she thinks he needs a bodyguard, but he puts up with her presence, so she puts up with his glowering. He’s still shooting her the occasional glare even as he unlocks his car and yanks the door open. Meira smirks into the face of it, but her expression falls a moment later when a shadow moves behind Eli. “Eli!” She shouts, and it’s just enough for Eli to duck as a shining sickle cuts through the air right where his neck used to be.

An arm catches Meira about the waist and hauls her backwards when she tries to go over the hood, and she drives her elbow back at her assailant. The pained grunt sounds familiar. “Damnit, Meira! It’s just me!” Dean curses, and Meira freezes.

On the other side of the car, Eli is grappling with an unfamiliar man, and it’s a sickening disappointment to know that the only reason her dad is only standing there watching instead of helping is because he wants to stop her from intervening. It _hurts_ , despite the fact that she’s been bracing for this for months, ever since she arrived here in the past, she’s known this was coming, but she hadn’t even been able to _begin_ to guess how much it would tear her up inside.

Eli snarls, inhuman and furious, and cold fury dulls the ache in Meira’s heart. Now is not the time to indulge her self-pity. She steels herself, and grabs Dean’s arm, twisting down and spinning around him and _yanking_ on the arm in her grip until Dean yelps. Then she shoves him into the side of the car and vaults over the hood, swinging both feet into the other hunter’s shoulder. The hunter lets go of Eli and staggers. He’s barely recovered by the time Meira’s feet hit the ground and she gets her plain steel knife in hand. His eyes dart from the knife to her face, and the grin he flashes is anything but friendly.

“I told ‘em.” He says smugly. “Told them you couldn’t be trusted.”

“Funny thing, coming from a murderer.” Meira replied coldly.

“ _Hunter_.” The hunter corrects sharply. “It’s not murder if they ain’t even human.”

Meira looks him over, deeply unimpressed. “You know, they used to say that about people like you, not so long ago.” The hunter scoffs, and Meira didn’t think she could get any more furious, but that sound spreads ice in her veins. “‘And thou shalt not mistreat a foreigner, for ye know what it is to be a foreigner.’” She quotes softly.

“Oh, shit.” Sam mutters, but Meira’s already lunging. The hunter dodges her first slash, and counters with a swipe of his sickle at her gut which she twists to avoid, bringing her knife down at his arm while he’s over-reaching. He cries out as blood flies, a clatter echoing through the parking lot as the sickle hits the ground, and Meira wastes no time aiming for his throat.

He’s yanked out of the way, and Meira aborts her stab before she can hit Sam, and turns to go after the other hunter again. Before she can, Dean grabs her again, this time going for an armlock. The other hunter smirks at her and ducks to pick up his weapon. Meira struggles, but Dean has a good hold on her, and if she used her angelic strength to get out, she would probably hurt him. She doesn’t want to have to do that. Not to her dad.

But Eli is lunging into the fray again, aiming for Dean, and the other hunter steps to meet him with a blood-chilling grin. “Whoa, hey, _stop it_!” Sam shouts, and drags the other hunter back by a fist-full of his jacket, like he’s some sort of disobedient puppy. The look on the hunter’s face is nothing short of murderous, but when Eli pulls up short and doesn’t keep attacking, he limits himself to shrugging aggressively out of Sam’s hold and glaring.

“If I let you go, are you going to try _stabbing_ anyone again?” Dean demands.

“I won’t if he won’t.” Meira snarls.

Dean scoffs. “Fine.” He huffs, and lets her go. Meira steps away from him, rather deliberately putting herself between Eli and the other hunter, who gives her a look of pure disgust. There’s a brief pause while everyone catches their breath. Then Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. “What the hell was that, Meira?” He demands roughly.

Meira stares at him, knowing she shouldn’t feel so betrayed, but unable to help it. Then she laughs. “I don’t know how you want me to answer that, Dean.” She admits.

Dean laughs as well, an incredulous scoff that’s almost a match to the sound Meira had just made. “I thought you wanted us to trust you. I thought you wanted to be part of this family.” He says, and it’s snide and sarcastic, mocking, but Meira flinches anyway. She can’t help it. She feels sick to her stomach and she has to breath through it for a moment lest she actually lose her lunch right there on the asphalt. Her dad is disowning her for protecting the innocent; what an ugly fucking joke.

“I do.” She says when she’s sure her voice will come out steady. “But not at the cost of innocent lives. I will not bear witness to evil and refuse to act.” She reminds him. “Not _ever_ , and especially not for my own comfort, you goddamned coward.”

Dean recoils like she’s slapped him. “ _Coward_?” He demands, almost too bewildered to be offended.

The other hunter interrupts with a nasty laugh. “Innocent? Boy, have you been good and snookered.” He says, darkly patronising, and it takes everything Meira has not to try and stick a knife in his eye again. Sam obviously notices, because he takes a step forward, putting himself just a little in front of the man. Meira gives him a dark look, but tries to relax her grip on the handle of her knife.

“He’s right.” Dean says, and Meira closes her eyes against it. “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking, getting into a car with a freaking _vampire_. Am I the only one who remembers what happened the last time?” He throws his hands in the air. “You can’t trust them, Meira. They’re _monsters_ , and if you give them an inch, they’ll turn on you like _that_.”

Meira counts her heartbeats, breathes to the tune of the thundering until it’s slowed to a steadier beat. “Show me proof.” She says, and it comes out a hiss because any louder and she wouldn’t be able to hide the tremor.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Show me a _single_ shred of goddamned proof that this man is a monster!” Meira snaps, voice wavering as she points at Eli, who looks like it’s taking all of his self-control to stay silent. He’s still letting Meira argue his case for him, though, and it’s just another ache to add to the ones tearing Meira apart inside. “Show me the missing persons reports, the exsanguinated corpses, show me what a ‘monster’ he apparently is.”

“Christ, Meira!” Dean explodes. “Did you not see his fucking fangs?! What more proof do you need?!” He demands.

Meira stares at him, and even though he’s got her dad’s face, there’s nothing at all that’s familiar about him in that moment. “So that’s it, is it?” She asks softly, and her voice isn’t shaking anymore. She’s too hollowed out to feel anything much right now. “He’s not human, so he has to die?”

“Yes, goddamnit!” Dean says. “If it’s supernatural, we kill it, end of story! That’s our _job_!”

The hollow calm that had settled over Meira a moment before shatters, and suddenly it’s too much. She staggers back a step, breathing suddenly coming high and too fast, panic beating through her with every throb of her heart, and she can’t _think_ because her dad wants to _kill her_ for what she is. Not human, not human _enough_ . Wings instead of fangs, and grace laced through her soul so tightly her enemies had to bind it beneath her skin because they simply _couldn’t_ tear it out, and that’s enough to warrant a death sentence in the eyes of one of her staunchest defenders.

She knew, of course, that he would feel this way, but now he’s said it and she can’t hide from it any longer. She turns away, even though she knows it’s stupid to turn her back on an enemy, and braces one hand on the hood of Eli’s car as if that might help the world steady out. Might help her keep her footing. Might stop the ugly terror, the nausea of the thought that right now, she would have to mutilate her soul to make herself acceptable to the only family she has left. She runs a hand over her mouth, and then immediately drops it as the thought becomes overwhelming, and she doubles over and throws up.

Someone has a hand on her back, and it’s both a relief and a disappointment when she looks up to see that it’s Eli, not Dean. “You done?” He asks, with the barest flicker of a smile.

Meira would laugh, except she’s pretty sure she’ll just choke on it. “Think so.” She rasps out.

Eli nods. “Come on, let’s get you in the car.” He says, urging her upright.

“I’m not leaving you alone with them.” Meira tells him, without looking over at the others.

“Yeah, you’re not going anywhere.” The other hunter agrees darkly. Eli snarls at him, drawing himself up to his full height and baring his fangs.

“ _That’s enough!_ ” Sam barks, sharp and commanding enough that it cuts through the growing tension. Eli even retracts his fangs in surprise. “We’re done here.”

“I’m not done. Not with him. Or with her.” The other hunter declares.

“Yeah. You are.” Sam informs him. “Walk away, Gordon.”

Meira dares to look around, although she can’t bring herself to look at Dean. Sam has turned to face Gordon, and oh boy if that name doesn’t ring a few bells for Meira, and the other hunter’s eyes are flicking between him and Dean, who’s still staring, bewildered, at Meira. “Alright.” Gordon says finally, taking a step back and holding up his hands. “I can see when I’m outnumbered.”

Eli slowly rounds towards the driver’s door and opens it. When no one stops him, he glances back at Meira, and nods. She nods back and moves for the passenger side door. “Meira…” Sam says quietly.

“You have my number, Sam.” Meira tells him, without quite meeting his gaze. She doesn’t think she could take it if she saw any hint of suspicion, condemnation, or even confusion in his eyes right now. “You can always call if you need help.” She adds, and then gets in the car before he can say anything else.

Eli gets in, too, turns it on, and drives away. The car stays silent for a good long while, and Meira tips her head back against the headrest and lets the tears come. “Thanks.” Eli says after what feels like a small age of driving through the dark. With her eyes closed, Meira would have thought she could pretend it’s the Impala, but it smells wrong. Fabric seats instead of leather, and a touch of plastic mixed in with the metal and oil.

“For what?” Meira asks tiredly.

“Arguing with your friends on my account?” Eli prompts, as if he thinks she’s an idiot for not knowing.

Meira snorts. “Wasn’t just on your account, honestly, but you’re welcome.”

Eli takes a moment to digest that, and Meira braces for it, for that one awful question. It never comes. Instead, all Eli says is; “Tell me what happened to Benny.”

A few more tears slip out at the sudden, painful surge of gratitude that fills Meira at that. At the sheer disregard for _what_ she is in favour of _who_ she is. She sniffs and scrubs her sleeve across her eyes. “He tried to leave his nest because he didn’t want to hurt people anymore. They took exception.” Meira summarises grimly. Eli swears softly, and Meira’s heart twists in her chest. She hates herself for the moment of hesitation, the way that secrecy has become so much a habit that even now, it stills her tongue. Eli doesn’t deserve her caution, not after all this, and frankly, if she can’t have her family, she can at least give him the same hope she’s desperately clinging to; the hope of having her family returned to her in the end. “He’ll be fine, though.”

Eli looks over at her sharply. “You said he was dead.”

Meira musters up a smile. It barely even hurts. “Death is a far less permanent state than God wants you to believe.” She tells him wryly. “Give it…” She thinks about it, and then almost wants to laugh, because she _has_ to think about it. With the number of times he’s died, she’s pretty sure that _has_ to make Benny an honorary Winchester. “About a decade, I think? He’ll be back.”

Eli’s hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “That ain’t funny.” He snarls, but his voice wavers ever so slightly, and the glance he flicks at Meira is desperate, not suspicious.

The fleeting moment of humour dies at once. “Not joking.” She assures him.

“You some sort of psychic or something?” Eli challenges.

“Or something.” Meira agrees without really agreeing, and then decides what the hell, she’s so fucking tired of keeping this goddamned secret. “When I said he was my dad’s best friend, I meant he _will be_ my dad’s best friend. They’ll meet in the afterlife, actually; they get out together.”

Eli is silent for a very long time. “There’s an afterlife for things like us?” He asks as they’re crossing over a rattly old bridge.

Meira hums a tired confirmation. “Purgatory. Dad always described it like the Hunger Games on steroids.” She pauses, and then winces. “Shit, that’s not out yet.” Eli snorts at her, shaking his head, and Meira finds herself suddenly choked up all over again. Holy shit, but it feels good to tell someone the goddamned truth. She gives a watery little laugh, and goes to press her knuckles against her eyes, only to remember that she still has a knife in one of them when she nearly stabs herself in the face.

“Careful.” Eli snaps at her, and Meira sheaths the knife in her pocket again.

“Thanks.” Meira huffs, then shrugs. “Anyway, it’s going to get a bit convoluted, but I’m pretty sure in a decade, Benny’ll be alive and kicking for good, if you can hold out that long.”

“I’ve been hoping to find him for nearly a century now.” Eli tells her wryly. “Another ten years isn’t going to make that much difference.”

They roll to a stop outside an old farmhouse. It looks a little worse for wear, but in the process of being repaired. “Nice place.” Meira compliments as she clambers out of the car and follows Eli to the door. He almost laughs at her, and she can sort of understand why. After the confrontation they’ve just been through, such bland niceties are a little hilarious. She means it, though, it is a nice place, if only for the fact that it looks like a _home_ , a place someone cares enough about to repair bit by bit. Her stomach turns all over again at the thought of Eli and his nest having to abandon it because of a monster like Gordon fucking Walker.

Eli leads the way inside, unlocking the door and not bothering to call out as he steps inside, Meira on his heels. “Who’s your guest, Eli?” A woman calls from deeper inside the house.

“Friend of Benny’s.” Eli calls back.

There’s a pause, and then a pretty dark-haired woman appears through an open archway, a startled expression on her face. “Your cousin?” She checks, and Eli nods. “Is he…?”

“Dead.” Eli grunts, expression twisting.

The woman’s expression crumples. “I’m so sorry, Eli.” Eli waves that off and stomps into another room. Going by the clatters and thuds, followed by the hiss of a carbonated drink being opened, it’s the kitchen. The woman watches him go with a faint frown, then turns a polite smile on Meira and holds out a hand. “I’m Lenore.”

“Meira.”

“You must’ve made quite an impression, for Eli to bring you back here.” Lenore tells her as they shake hands, clearly trying to get the measure of her. “Especially with the honing oil and gunpowder I can smell on you.”

“That’s one way of putting it, I guess.” Meira says, trying not to think about it.

“She nearly took out the fucker that killed Christina.” Eli interjects, reappearing to lounge in the archway leading off into the kitchen, bottle of coke in hand. “Got in a row with her buddies over my right to live, so I figure she’s not all terrible.”

Lenore sucks in a sharp breath, and then turns a smile on Meira that’s almost wondering. “Thank you.” She says, searching Meira’s face.

Meira tries to smile back, but she’s pretty sure it doesn’t work, because Lenore’s expression crumples into a frown. “Anytime.” She says, and it’s sincere, but it’s pained, too.

Eli clears his throat, and Lenore turns to him, eyebrows raised. “I’m thinking she might need a place to stay, ‘least for a little while.” He points out, with glance at Meira to check whether he’s right or not. Meira honestly has no idea what reaction she ought to have. She doesn’t think she’d want to stay here permanently. She’d rather head off to Missouri’s, in all honesty, or maybe the Roadhouse, but for a night or, two, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. That is, if she isn’t going to go back to Sam and Dean and… see if she can’t keep following them around like an abused puppy.

She snorts at herself, too tired to be disgusted. “Maybe a couple of days, if you could spare the room.” She admits.

Lenore hesitates, but it’s barely for a second before she’s nodding. “Of course.” Then she grimaces faintly and looks back the way she came. “We’re not going to be here much longer, a day or two at most, but you’re welcome to come with us, if you want.”

Meira considers that. “Which way are you headed?”

“South.”

Eli snorts. “Not really any other way to go, unless we want to move to Canada.”

“South-east or south-west?” Meira wonders.

Lenore shrugs. “Do you have a preference?”

Meira doesn’t want to answer that. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and looks at it, thinking of her last phone call with Missouri, and figures she hasn’t really got a lot of choice. “South-east, if you don’t mind. Kansas.”

“As good a place as any.” Eli says to Lenore, who nods. She and Eli set to packing their things, a process which has clearly been ongoing for a while, and Meira insists on helping, despite Lenore’s offers to make up a bed on the couch. She wants to keep busy, because she doesn’t want to give herself any time to think about what happened.

She should have thought about it, because then she might have been a bit more prepared when both Eli and Lenore’s heads snap up, just before something crashes through the window and explodes. It’s not an actual bomb, but there’s still enough concussive force to knock Meira into the wall, and the noise and light leave her half-blind and unable to hear anything over the ringing in her ears. She puts herself back to rights with her grace, but the vampires have no such luxury.

Which is what Gordon is counting on, of course. There’s noxious smoke still trickling from the flash-bang as well, to obscure even scent. She has to give the guy props for being good at his job, even if she’s so damn glad to be able to throw a wrench into his plan. When Gordon follows his flash-bang through the window, he’s expecting her to be just as stunned as the vampires. He’s not expecting her to meet the downward swing of his machete with her own knife. She knocks his swing wide and punches him square in the face with every bit of angelic strength in her. She feels his jaw break under her knuckles, and he crashes back into the wall beside the window, dazed.

Meira takes the opening, but even in pain and off-balance, Gordon’s no slouch, he throws himself out of the way of her stab so that it only grazes his side instead of plunging between his ribs. He rolls, staggers as he comes up, and swings around with his machete leading. Meira ducks the swing, comes up inside his range, and catches him a glancing blow across the stomach as he jerks backwards.

Right into Eli, who grabs his arm and twists it in one sharp jerk. There’s an awful crack, a grunt of pain, and the machete clatters to the floor. Gordon swings a punch at Eli that sends the vampire staggering back a step, but it leaves the hunter wide open, and once again, Meira lunges.

This time the knife goes right where it’s supposed to, between his ribs just under his shoulder blade and right into his heart. He gives a tiny punched-out gasp, and drops. Meira puts her boot on his back and yanks her knife out, caught between satisfaction and a distant sense of pity.

“You killed him.” Lenore says around a cough.

“Yeah, I did.” Meira replies with a shrug. “You two should get outside, away from this stink.”

“Meira!”

Meira whips around, just in time to see Sam come crashing in through the front door, Dean right on his heels. Instinct says to lower her knife, but she doesn’t. Sam comes to a stop in the hall, staring at Gordon’s body sprawled halfway through the arch into the living room. “You killed him?” Dean demands, looking around Sam’s shoulder.

“I think there’s an echo in here.” Meira mutters, and Eli snorts. “Yes, I freaking killed him. He was preying on the innocent, and he wasn’t going to stop if I said pretty please, so yeah, I killed him.”

Dean looks like he has something he wants to say to that, but Sam gets there first. “Is- uh, is everyone else okay?” He asks carefully.

Lenore and Eli stare at him for a very long moment. “Other than a little dizziness, we’re fine.” Lenore says finally. “I think I’d like to go outside, though. Away from the smell.” Meira’s pretty sure she doesn’t mean the smoke.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Sam says, and drags Dean out of the way, ignoring his mild protest. Lenore very carefully steps over Gordon and walks outside, and Eli follows with far less care, kicking Gordon’s head as he goes. He pauses at the door, though, and looks back.

“You gonna be okay by yourself?” He asks Meira. She smiles at the consideration, but nods. He watches her for a long moment, then shoots a mistrustful glare at Sam and Dean, before disappearing outside.

Meira waits for one of them to say something, but they don’t. There’s no accusations, no questions, no demands, just a silence that grows more and more awkward by the second. “Well.” Dean says briskly, making Meira jump. “Looks like we’re done here, so…” He jerks his head towards the door, hesitates just a beat too long to be casual when he asks, “You coming, Meira?”

The scared kid inside her wants to say yes, wants her dad, but she can’t help but remember what he’d said in that parking lot, and it makes her feel sick all over again. “Sure you want the monsterfucker polluting your car?” She asks acerbically.

“Monsterfucker?” Dean echoes. “Really?”

Meira almost wants to laugh, but only almost. “Lenore is hot.” She points out, but Dean doesn’t even make an agreeing face, just grimaces. “Look, you don’t have to worry about stranding me here or anything. Lenore offered me a lift.”

“You don’t have to go, Meira.” Sam says, all earnestness and puppy-eyes.

Meira smiles grimly at the floor. “Kinda think I do, Sam. I’m not- I don’t hold it against you, you know, the way you were raised. You’re not like that psycho-” She kicks the sole of Gordon’s shoe. “-and prejudice can be a bitch to unlearn, but I can’t-”

“Why are you so invested?” Dean asks suddenly.

“Dean.” Sam snaps reprovingly.

Meira turns to look at Dean slowly, trying to keep her breathing even. “What do you mean?” She asks very carefully.

“Throwing up’s a pretty severe reaction to a few words, is all I’m saying.”

“Well, it’s pretty sickening when someone you trust says they’d slaughter people based on appearance over character.” Meira fires back, and Dean flinches. It doesn’t make Meira feel any better at all, even if she isn’t going to take it back.

Dean looks away and, after a moment, nods. Meira isn’t sure whether it’s to himself, or in answer to what she said. Maybe it’s both. “You know I- I get that I was wrong? You were right about these guys.” He manages to get out, gruff and reluctant, but Meira knows better than to mistake that for insincerity.

“How’d you figure?” Meira asks, and it’s maybe a little sharp, but she’s genuinely curious, too.

Dean shoots her a look, but then shrugs. “Sam pointed out that we’d been standing there having a whole damn argument about whether or not vampires are people or monsters while Gordon was bleeding all over the parking lot and Eli wasn’t even twitching in his direction.” He admits sheepishly.

Meira blinks a couple of times. “Oh, yeah, I cut him.” She remembers. Then she shakes her head. “And what about the next time?” She asks. “You willing to listen to me next time I say maybe we shouldn’t just jump in guns blazing?”

Dean grits his teeth, glaring at her. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Meira echoes.

“Jesus, I don’t know.” Dean snaps. “I can’t promise I’m not going to listen to my instincts if I think something’s dangerous, alright? No matter what you say. Can’t it be enough that I’ll admit it’s _possible_ for monsters to be…” He trails off, like he can’t even say the words, and then waves a hand in a sharp, negating gesture. “You know what? Never mind. There’s room in the back seat if you want it, but if you can’t deal, then you can’t deal. We’re not trying to keep you prisoner or anything.”

Dean walks out without waiting to hear anything Meira might have to say, not that’s she’s quite capable of finding words, yet. Sam rolls his eyes at his brother’s back, but then offers Meira a wry, hopeful smile. “I’ll miss you, if you decide to go with them.” He says.

Meira swallows, and nods, and Sam accepts that and follows Dean, leaving Meira to her thoughts. She closes her eyes, and breathes out all of her fear and uncertainty and guilt and horror. Breathes in the smell of blood and lingering noxious smoke. In the end, she knows what she’s going to do, and it’s probably stupid and self-sacrificial of her, but then, she _is_ a Winchester.

She heads outside and walks over to where Lenore is leaning against the back of one of her nests’ cars. “You ready to go?” Lenore asks.

Meira smiles ruefully. “I’m gonna stick with those guys a little while longer.” She says. “But thanks for the offer, really.”

Lenore watches her with a small frown. “You sure?”

“Someone has to watch their backs.” Meira says. She’s made so many small changes over the last year, after all, and killing Gordon is just the latest and largest. “Hey, gimme your number, and we’ll stay in touch. You get in any more trouble-” She jerks her head back towards the house to indicate what she means. “-you call, and I’ll come back you up. Might even be able to drag these guys into helping, too, next time.” She adds hopefully.

Lenore smiles at that, and digs out her phone so they can exchange numbers. Meira is startled when, in that slightly awkward pause between finishing the niceties and actually leaving, Lenore leans in and kisses her, light and chaste, and then smirks at Meira’s owlish blinking. “We vampires have very good hearing, remember?” She prompts, amused.

Meira remembers her flippant, provocative comment to Dean, and grins. “I didn’t say anything I didn’t mind you overhearing.” She announces piously, and Lenore laughs. “Stay safe.” Meira says, and Lenore’s humour fades into an understanding smile.

“You too.” She returns, and with that, Meira turns and walks over to the Impala. It’s been idling this whole time, so Meira suspects Sam and Dean figured she was coming. She opens the back door and slides in without a word, and Dean guns the engine and turns the music up. It makes Meira smile, as she tips her head back against the headrest, when she realises it’s Carry On Wayward Son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22/02/2021 Edit: Apologies, everyone. Life is kicking me in the teeth repeatedly right now, and to add insult to injury, a power-cut managed to nuke the 7K odd words I managed to write on the final chapter of this fic, which would've been extremely demoralising even if I did have the time to rewrite any of it, which I so don't.
> 
> So, this story is going on hiatus a little earlier than expected. I hope I'll be coming back to it at some point, but I have literally no idea what life is going to throw at me in the coming months, so everything's up in the air right now =/


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